


In Between the Cracks (I See)

by Katsitting (Nekositting)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternative Universe- No Dark Lord, Auror Harry Potter, Blood Kink, Blood and Gore, Bondage, Breathplay, Do not let the light beginning fool you, Dubious Consent, Edgeplay, Evil Mirror, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry has parents, He's a baby dark lord still, I'm messing heavily with consent, M/M, Overstimulation, Physical Torture, Psychological Torture, Some mention of Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Sounding, This will get dark fast, TomarryDarkSpringExchange, Voldemort Never Started the First War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-07-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:20:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 15
Words: 41,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekositting/pseuds/Katsitting
Summary: It made him pause, unsure and pensive as to how this particular piece was left untouched by the atrophy that had consumed every other thing in the room. Golden lanterns and silver jewelry had all been made the home of tenacious bugs and vermin―forgotten by owners long since dead, but not abandoned by the whims of decay.But the mirror was unspoiled, radiating a kind of elegance that made Harry’s lungs feel tight with awe.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darklordtomarry (das_omen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/das_omen/gifts).



> This is my contribution to the Tomarrydarkspringexchange. I volunteered and filled prompt #1: Harry finds a mirror and trapped inside is Tom Riddle| Lord Voldemort who possesses him and begins using his body to kill and take people apart to make Tom Riddle| Lord Voldemort a new body for the lovely darklordtomarry. 
> 
> This will get dark very quickly.
> 
> A big thanks to erised-selddir for betaing my story :)
> 
> I want to draw this story out, but I was just so excited to share it with all of you that I just posted all the chapters.

Harry scrunched his nose when the strong smell of mildew hit him, the stench enough to draw an unwilling sneeze from Harry as he maneuvered his way through the cluttered space. It should not surprise him that the room was in such a state, there was a reason it was called the Room of Hidden Things in the first place.

He could see the towers of junk dwarfing him in their grandeur, sturdy despite the obvious wear and tear of some of the pieces. He could see where moths had eaten through some of the fabric, where termites had nibbled their way into the wooden frames of some dressers he passed as he moved. But it was not at all surprising that the mounds of lost things managed to keep themselves together. It seemed that there was little magic could not do―even for items long since abandoned and forgotten by their owners.

There was something about being lost among these items that gave Harry some sort of peace. Sure, it was chaotic and smelled rather offensive to his nose most of the time, but this room was one of the many that Harry visited when he needed time to himself.

He had found the room when he had been stuck in a particularly prickly situation―out past curfew and Professor Snape hot on his heels. Harry had made the mistake of taking Malfoy at his word when they had agreed to settle their score in the Trophy Room. Only to find that the slimey professor had been waiting there instead of the equally as slimey student of his.

It was a miracle in and of itself that Harry had managed to survive that chase unscathed, but he had lived to tell the tale.

He was quite the survivor when he put his mind to it.

Harry turned his attention back to the bleak room, noting that the room had not changed since the last time he had been there. The same items were still piled on top of one another. The more valuable ones, still very much neglected, but tucked away in their own corners.

The sight of the chaos of the room should have been enough to deter Harry from coming back, but really, it was just so bloody cool and he had the room all to himself really. He had mulled over the idea of telling Ron and Hermione about it, but knowing Hermione, she would most likely tell a professor about his find. He loved her, truly, but she was too by the book at times. It was near impossible to pry her away from her books and from the framework of rules she clung furiously to.

Harry could have told Ron, but Ron was _horrid_ at keeping secrets. The ginger-haired boy tended to shove his foot in his mouth more often than not―so much worse than Harry when was stuck in the same room with Malfoy.

So it was really only Harry’s secret room, even if the room was not ideal.

He paused when he saw something flash at him from a tight corner, the light forcing him to blink furiously to melt away the spots that danced across his vision. Harry was not used to things flashing at him from the dim light of the room―the few once pretty trinkets were so tarnished from disuse that Harry had yet to see anything glimmer.

Until now.

It was curious that there was something in there that still had some light to it, and like a moth to a flame, Harry chased after the source. He almost tripped in his haste to reach it, eager to learn just what the object could be.

After tripping countlessly over some small piles of clutter on the floor, Harry was finally rewarded with the source of the light.

He stood before a flat square object, the width and length of it so grand that Harry had to step back for a moment to take it in completely.  It was hidden underneath a gray rag, but there was no mistaking that this was the source. Harry could make out something glittering through the moth eaten holes in the fabric, and he tried to breathe in deeply to calm the excitement he was feeling. He could see something smooth and clear from behind one of the larger holes, and it was with great eagerness that Harry finally tore the offending fabric away from the object of his desire.

He did not know what he was expecting when he unveiled the object, but it was definitely not a _mirror._ Harry was frozen with disbelief, annoyance quickly overtaking him when he realized he’d almost killed himself tripping over rubbish for a _mirror._

Nice job, Harry.

Though admittedly, the mirror was rather beautiful. Its frame looked sturdy, the patterns carved into the wood intricate and unlike anything Harry had ever seen before. He was familiar with runes after spending years training in Hogwarts, but none of those symbols were engraved into the wood―the patterns looked more like squiggles than an actual design. Harry could not help reaching out to touch them, a jolt of something shooting up his arms where his fingers made contact with the mirror.

It felt smooth to the touch, the varnish relatively intact despite how old the mirror had to be. Everything in the Room of Hidden Things looked like it was ready to break to pieces, to melt into tiny puddles of sand if it were breathed on too harshly. But this mirror was nothing like any of the other items in the room.

When Harry tore his gaze away from the carvings on the wood, he was met with his own reflection in the glass. Not a speck of dust to be found.

The glass was immaculate. As if decay was not permitted to touch it.

It made him pause, unsure and pensive as to how this particular piece was left untouched by the atrophy that had consumed every other thing in the room. Golden lanterns and silver jewelry had all been made the home of tenacious bugs and vermin―forgotten by owners long since dead, but not abandoned by the whims of decay.

But the mirror was unspoiled, radiating a kind of elegance that made Harry’s lungs feel tight with awe.

Harry was seized immediately by curiosity, his fingers reaching to touch the glass. He didn’t care that he was most likely going to smudge his dirty fingers on the glass. It was a habit his mother often chastised him for when he could not resist sticking his fingers on all the pretty things at the markets. It was a dangerous habit―one he should have kept in check after one of the girls his year had been cursed when she had found a beautiful necklace. But he could not help himself, there was just _something_ about the mirror that spoke to him.

He sighed at how cold the surface felt against his fingers, the ice of it chilling him to his core. But it did not deter him despite it.

His hand grew numb from the frigidness, but it was hardly a concern for Harry. No one could come upon him and see him touching the mirror. This was a private moment for him to satisfy his own curiosity. And give in to the strange compulsion squirming in his gut.

“ _Harry._ _”_

The boy jumped, snatching his hand quickly away from the mirror to survey just where in the room the voice had come from. Harry was sure he had been alone **;** no one knew about the room **,** save himself. He was _absolutely_ sure of it.

He was tempted to search the room to uncover just where he heard the voice, but there was a nagging in the back of his mind that begged him to remain where he was. It was that strange sensation again, a tingling that reminded him that there was something of interest behind him that he should be more interested in than who could possibly be in the room.

Harry waited with baited breath for the voice to speak again. But the seconds that Harry waited stretched to minutes, and those minutes stretched to an indeterminable amount of time without a single sound. Harry was wary of the room now, distrustful even of the space he had only moments before been savoring.

It left a bad taste in his mouth, but _something_ had said his name.

It was with great reluctance that Harry turned his attention back to the mirror, his own reflection staring back into his own. Harry could see the suspicion in his own eyes, a tenseness to his shoulders that had not been there moments prior.

Harry was afraid to admit that he was unsettled, but he refused to let it show. To let the voice in his mind dictate how he should conduct himself.

Nothing could be dangerous here. Dumbledore had made sure of it when he had defeated Grindelwald and saved the wizarding world from chaos. It only made sense that his protection would extend to the school as well.

Though Harry was not sure that also applied to hidden rooms too.

But that did not mean that Harry was going to leave.

Harry reached out once more, pressing his fingers against the glass as he had been earlier. It still felt cold, but it was somehow warmer? Harry knew there was something different this time, his fingers still felt numb, but the glass was not a glacier.

“That’s odd…”Harry murmured to himself, concentrating on the room reflected by the glass rather than himself. Everything looked the same.

It made Harry wonder if the mirror was somehow enchanted. It had to be if time refused to touch it. In some way, all of the items in the room were magic, so it only made sense that this mirror would retain its own glamour too.

But what kind of power could it have?

“Is there a particular reason you are touching me so? It is quite rude.” Harry froze, snatching his hand back as if he’d been burned. There was nothing reflected in the mirror, but Harry was quite sure he had heard something speak from it. The tone had been soft, curious even, but not one Harry had ever heard before.

 “...You can talk.” Harry managed to choke out, but only just. Looking for some sort of person behind the glass, to see his own self speak to him as the enchanted mirrors in Hogwarts often did. Except he had complete control of his own reflection and there was nothing in the clutter reflected that revealed anyone else.

Harry was alone. Or at least, he seemed to be.

After a long pause, the mirror spoke again. It felt like it was trying to gather enough to strength to speak.

“…yes. It has been a long time since I have had the strength. You are the first person to come across me since I came to be here.”

Harry pursued his lips at that, drinking in the rich sound of the man’s voice. It was beautiful, almost like a melody Harry had long forgotten. It was odd though, because Harry was sure he had never heard this voice before, in both his time in Hogwarts and on the radio.

“How did you come to be here?” Harry was curious, plopping his arse on the dirty floor to wait for the mirror to speak. He wanted to hear its story, charmed by the idea of an object somehow retaining some sort of sentiency.

He faintly recalled the warnings of his own parents when he was a young boy, even of the Weasley’s, urging him to steer clear of objects that seemed autonomous. Very rarely did good things come out of it, but what his parents didn’t know would not hurt them.

The mirror was silent for a moment, just as it had been earlier when it answered, before the rich sound from it came again. Harry wanted to close his eyes to listen, but he refrained. It was embarrassing how a voice could make him feel so at peace and intrigued.

What would Ron say to that? Harry almost snorted at that thought.

“…I used to be a student just like you. I had dreams and aspirations. Plans prepared for when I would graduate and set out to explore the world…” Harry’s breath hitched at how sad the voice sounded, the melancholy clinging onto him like a second skin. The mirror had grown silent, but Harry somehow knew that the mirror was not finished telling its tale.

“…I was an avid scholar. I wanted to learn the secrets of the world. But then, I made a mistake when conducting one of the many experiments I did in pursuit of knowledge.” Harry listened avidly, drinking in the words as they were said. He did not understand why he felt so empathetic. It was almost as if _he_ himself had been trapped in the mirror, his own dreams crushed through no will of his own.

“The experiment went wrong. And I somehow ended up here, in this mirror. No one knew I was here…this room was my haven from the prying eyes of my peers.” The mirror’s voice sounded strained at the end his phrase, and Harry felt an unexplainable fear coil in his gut at the prospect of the voice never speaking again. “Lost… forgotten. Until you found me.”

The voice sounded happy then, and Harry could not help smiling in response. Harry was surprised at how much he wanted to help the mirror then. He didn’t know a single thing about this sort of magic, but he had to help. He couldn’t just leave this person trapped in the mirror for Merlin knows how long. He steeled himself for the difficult task and sat up from the floor, careful not to touch the mirror after being admonished for it earlier.

“I’ll help you get out of there.”

Harry spoke with conviction, his eyes staring into the mirror as if to convey just how readily he’d act. He could not help that he was a bleeding heart, often picked on by the Slytherins for his habit of helping those in need. His parents had taught him the importance of helping others, and this mirror was not any different than Neville when Snape was particularly cruel to him.

There was no ifs, ands, or buts. He was going to help even if the mirror did not want it.

“…you would help a perfect stranger? I could be dangerous.” The voice sounded almost amused, and Harry grimaced at the wisdom in the mirror’s comment.

“Stranger or not, you need my help! I can’t just leave you like this.” Harry was stubborn, lifting his chin despite the likelihood that the mirror could not actually see the gesture. “You used to be a person, I'm sure there is a way to bring you back.”

The mirror was silent once more, but Harry knew it would respond. It just _had_ to.

Even if it did not agree, Harry was simply going to help it anyway. He’d get Ron and Hermione here post haste to get started on their plan.

They’d probably call him an idiot, but they’d help him all the same.

“…You’re too kind. It seems that you are bent on helping me regardless of my wishes. Then please, help me. But I have a few conditions.” Harry nodded his head eagerly, pleased that the mirror did not put up a fight.

“You are to tell no one about me…my predicament is one of its kind. I might be carted away to the Ministry to be experimented on, otherwise.” Harry was shocked, understanding dawning at the reality that that would definitely be his fate. The Ministry was at peace now, but that did not mean the same thing for a lot of magical items. Harry recalled the many raids into wizarding homes for dark objects---for things that had been a part of generations of families, to be dissected and never to be returned to their true owners.

Harry did not want that for the mirror. He refused to give it up to the wolves when Harry had only just found it.

“Okay, I won’t.” Harry almost nodded his head before he caught himself, recalling again that the mirror could probably not see him.

“What was your name before you became trapped in the mirror?” Harry almost kicked himself at not asking earlier, feeling rather rude that he had practically forced his help on the object but did not bother to ask the most simplest of questions.

“…Tom Riddle. I was a seventh year…what is the name of my savior?”

Harry melted at the sound, intrigued by the name.

It suited the mirror. It was definitely a _riddle._

“My name is Harry Potter, and I am also finishing up my last year here at Hogwarts.”

Harry grinned back at the mirror, entirely too trusting of the mirror he had found.


	2. Chapter 2

“Nothing in there either? Bollocks.” Harry chewed his lip in worry, piles of different texts lying about the room. To an outsider, the room would look as it always did, the clutter a part of its charm. But the reality of the situation was entirely different, it had been weeks since Harry had set out on his mission to help Tom get out of the mirror, but there had yet to be any breakthroughs.

It mostly involved Harry procuring books from the library for a bizarre array of different subjects―from Ancient Runes for the Professional Wizard to Traditional Rituals, Rites, and Charms for the Curious Mind. But none of the books, in Harry’s honest opinion, had been any help. Harry had no clue where to begin—and neither did Tom, guessing from the almost gloomy aura surrounding the mirror this evening.

“We will find something, Harry. There is no need to worry about it.” But Harry could not help but feel rather concerned. He was graduating in a year, and when he did, he was sure that Tom would be left all by himself in the room. Harry would not betray his trust and out him to others when he had given him his word, but how was Harry supposed to help if he didn’t at least have one person in the school involved?

It was incredibly frustrating.

“But we don’t have time!” Harry gripped, smoothing his fingers against the glass to gather some of his composure. There was something about touching Tom that settled his nerves. At first, it was rather disconcerting when he did, almost as if the mirror itself was lapping up all of his emotions. But after weeks of talking to Tom, there was nothing to really worry about. Tom had told him that it was his magic simply reacting to Harry’s presence, familiarizing itself to Harry’s own and attempting to ease his nerves.

It was flattering the first time Tom had told him that, and Harry tried not to ponder too hard on that thought. He needed to push as many books against the glass as he could, there was no time for the weird thoughts he felt percolating in the back of his head.

“Harry, we _will_ find something that will help us. This book was not very useful, but that is alright. Your companionship is more than enough to keep my spirits up.” Harry turned his head away from the mirror, his cheeks warming uncomfortably from the unexpected comment.

Harry really needed to get a hold of himself. Tom may be a real person, but he wasn’t a person _yet_. These were not feelings he should have for an inanimate object.

“Fine. But it worries me, you know? It feels like I’m not doing enough. You’re the one trapped in the mirror…” Harry continued to slide his fingers against the glass as he spoke, waiting for Tom to gather his energy to speak. It often took Tom some time, especially when they spoke for hours perusing through different books and simply sharing stories about themselves. It only made sense that Tom would need a moment.

“I know, but you will see that everything will fall into place.” Harry simply nodded, thinking on what other books he could take from the library without getting caught. Hermione was already suspicious of his disappearances in the dead of night and his trips to the library. He needed to be careful or else he’d find himself at the receiving end of her warning glance. Harry had seen enough of Ron’s horrified looks when she’d throw that look in his direction.

“Tell me about your day, Harry. It seems that I have not given you the opportunity to tell me about yourself.” Harry perked up at that, his motions stilling to look questioningly at Tom. It wasn’t necessarily true, Harry talked about himself rather often. Especially when he was frustrated with their progress or just angry at the bullshit he had to deal with from Snape.

“Don’t I already complain enough? I don’t give you many options, you know. It isn’t like you can leave if I start to ramble about rubbish you don’t like.” Harry teased, genuinely curious but amused all the same by Tom. The man―mirror, whatever―was rather mercurial with his moods, often growing silent when Harry asked too many questions about his life before he was trapped, or chatty when intrigued by a particular passage in one of the books Harry had found.

The mirror reminded Harry of Hermione in a way.

“Nothing that you say is rubbish, Harry. You underestimate your own capabilities.” Harry choked at that, unable to speak for a few seconds as he tried to gather his thoughts.

_Did Tom really just_ _…_ _?_

“T-thank you.” Harry was so embarrassed that he had no clue what else to say. It was not that what Tom said was a lie; Harry knew he was smarter than he seemed. He was very sharp and he caught on to things quicker than most, but hearing someone Harry found to be a _genius..._

Well, it was almost too much. He was horrid at taking compliments. Especially when he knew that Tom meant it.

“You’re welcome. Now, you were just about to tell me about your day.” Tom’s tone left no room for Harry to argue. Harry sighed before rubbing his fingers against the glass once more, a gesture that grounded him back to reality.

“Well, my day was alright. It was no different than yesterday.” Harry trailed off, trying to remember if there was something interesting to share. “I had breakfast with Ron and Hermione. Ron pissed off Hermione again, as usual, so I spent the majority of it listening to Hermione tear Ron a new arsehole for shirking his Prefect duties to play Wizard’s Chess with Seamus.” Harry recalled the look of horror that dawned on Ron’s face when Hermione had given him _the look_ , the promise of punishment so clear in her face that Harry could not help chuckling in front of Tom at the memory.

“How did you meet them? You speak rather often of them.” It took Harry a few moments to recover from his laughter to answer Tom’s question.

“Well, Ron was the first person I met when I started my first day at Hogwarts. I had gotten lost at the train station, so caught up with the muggles moving about that I separated from my own mum and dad. I was quite scared, actually. Thinking I was going to miss out on going to school.” Harry reminisced, sliding his fingers away from the glass to wiggle into the engravings on the mirror.

“It was Ron and his mum that found me. They saw the color of my scarf, one that my dad had given me, and knew immediately that I was a wizard-child. They led me through the false wall, and that was where I found my own parents. They were worried sick, and I thought for sure my mum was going to scold me to death.” Harry chuckled, playing absentmindedly with the mirror.

“And Hermione?” The mirror asked, and Harry could not repress his glee when he heard the curious note to Tom’s voice.

“Well, Ron and I were not originally very fond of her. Actually no, _Ron_ was the one that was not very fond of her.  He was jealous of just how bloody smart she was. He was a total prat to her for a good few weeks.” Harry scrunched his nose up, recalling the mean things Ron would say—annoyed that, at the time, Harry had not said anything despite how perturbed he was by the ginger’s comments.

“But then, one day Ron and I stumbled into Malfoy picking on her. He called her…I don’t even want to say the word.” Harry felt the anger familiar coil around him at the memory, the vision of Hermione crying as Malfoy and his cronies pushed her enough to set his blood aflame. “Ron may not have liked Hermione, but he couldn’t stand the way the Slytherins were treating her. He stormed over there like a knight in shining armor and managed to hex himself instead of Malfoy. Though, not before he punched him in the nose, of course.”

Tom laughed then, his voice enough to make something in Harry’s gut flutter pleasantly. He liked it when Tom laughed. There was something so genuine about it that Harry could not help laughing too.

“Very muggle of him.” Tom said, and Harry nodded his head before he could stop himself. He kept forgetting that Tom could not actually see him.

Merlin, he needed to get himself together.

“True, but there’s nothing wrong with that. It certainly got Malfoy to leave Hermione alone.” Harry snickered. “We’ve been friends ever since. Not the most typical of beginnings, but I wouldn’t give them up for the world.”

Tom hummed at that, both of them lapsing into silence.

“It’s getting late. You should return to your common room before someone notices you’re missing.” Tom’s voice sounded strangled again, a cross between the static of a muggle television and the hiss of a serpent. It was a strange sound, but Harry had grown used to it after weeks of spending time with Tom.

“Yes, _Hermione_.” Harry snarked, a wide grin lighting up his face as he finally moved away from the mirror. He did not bother with picking up the books from the floor, ignoring a voice that sounded too much like Hermione admonishing him for his careless attitude with the tomes.

“Good night, Tom. See you tomorrow.” Harry called, turning his back from the mirror to head for the shimmering door at the other side of the door.

“Until next time, _Harry._ _”_

Harry did not notice the sharpness of how his name was spoken, higher-pitched and absent of all decadent splendor as he left.


	3. Chapter 3

“I am telling you, I am _this_ close to cursing Malfoy. If he says one more thing about my mum, I don’t care if I end up in Azkaban, I am going to kill him.” Harry seethed, pacing around the room as he spoke.

Tom was quiet as Harry moved, seemingly waiting for Harry to finish shouting.

“He’s such a _tosser_. Everyone else has kept their comments to themselves, knowing how I feel about my parents since…” Harry felt grief overtake him, the trembling of his limbs no longer because of his anger.

Harry did not have it in himself to speak, the memory of his parents enough to rob him of all the words he had planned to say.

“What happened to your parents, Harry?” Tom sounded curious, but there was something about his tone that drained all the remaining energy Harry had in his body. He crossed the short distance to press himself against the mirror, almost as if Tom could actually hug him. He felt the familiar magic settle over him like a warm blanket, easing Harry’s distress with each second he touched it.

Harry did not answer for a long time, basking in the familiar magic before steeling himself for the conversation he was going to have. He had not had it in himself to talk to Ron or Hermione about his emotions, choosing instead to bottle up his feelings and grieve on his own. But there was no way that he could keep this from Tom after he had made a show of it when he stormed in like a scorned lover.

“You don’t have to tell me if you do not wish to.” Tom reassured, the sound soothing. It was nice that Tom had given him the option to not discuss it. Everyone else had been aggressive with their desires to get Harry to talk, Hermione’s concerned gaze and Ron’s insistent questions enough to drive him mad. It made Harry feel like he was in control of himself rather than fine china ready to crack if jostled too hard.

“No, Tom. I want to tell you.” Harry’s throat felt tight with emotion, but he was slowly calming. Tom’s magic doing most of the heavy lifting.

“My parents…they suffered a terrible accident.” Harry tried not to tear up as he spoke, choosing instead to focus on Tom’s magic as it danced across his skin. “The Aurors haven’t been able to find evidence of who did it, but they suspect that my parents were attacked by a dark wizard.”

Harry’s braced himself for words he was going to speak, the grief so heavy that it felt like a physical weight had been mounted on Harry’s shoulders. “They’re dead. A bloody dark wizard killed them, Tom.”

Suddenly Harry was crying in earnest, his nose and throat so clogged that it was difficult for him to breathe. He could feel Tom’s magic attempt to pacify his frazzled emotions, but it did little to curb the storm once it hit.

“T-they’re gone. No one understands what this feels like.” Harry pressed one hand into his face in an attempt to stop the tears, his glasses clicking against his fingers as he did.

Harry cried for what felt like hours, the grief swirling like a vengeful serpent in the center of his chest. Hermione and Ron had tried to corner him earlier, but he had made his escape to the room. They had not seen the door materialize when he rushed to it, and Harry was absolutely grateful that he had not told them about the room months earlier. He doubted he would have been able to cry without the pitying glances of his friends otherwise.

“You’re not alone, Harry.” Tom finally spoke, his voice cutting through the grief Harry had enveloped himself in.

“But I am. Hermione and Ron want me to talk about my feelings as if I’m some broken teacup. I can see the pity in their eyes. I can see it in the eyes of everyone else, save for that arse Malfoy.” Harry felt so tired. His parents had only been gone a week but it already felt like he had lived through an eternity of despair.

“I’m trying so hard not to fall apart, but every single time they look at me **,** it cracks the front I’m trying to keep whole.”

“I understand how you feel, Harry.” Harry paused, swiping at the corners of his eyes to remove the moisture that had collected there. “…I did not have parents at all for which to grieve. My mother having passed in childbirth, and my father…he abandoned me and left me to live a life in an orphanage.” Harry did not know what to say, any and all words seeming to pale after such a confession.

Harry had been loved―cherished by his parents. But Tom, he had never known what it was like to have parents. That was cruel.

“You had wonderful parents, Harry. They cherished you, treasured you. I was abandoned, left to waste away in a horrid place where the children mocked me for being different and the adults turned a blind eye to my plights.” Harry felt incredibly sad for the man that had trapped himself in the mirror.

It was awful that his words cheered Harry up in a way. The guilt of it making Harry feel worse as he clung to the mirror like a lifeline.

“My life was not pleasant, but I made the best of it. You should do the same, Harry.” Tom’s words were firm, but they were not cutting like Malfoy’s cruel words or pitying like the looks in his friends’ eyes.

“…Thank you, Tom.” Harry pressed himself closer to him, allowing himself to melt into the familiar wave of magic without thought. His grief was still there, a heavy presence that Harry doubted he could ever get rid of. But he had Tom to chase away that darkness. “You’re right.”


	4. Chapter 4

“I want to show you something.”

Harry stopped reading, intrigued and also admittedly very confused. Harry had yet to find anything that could help Tom escape from the mirror. Harry did not think a mirror had the capacity to show Harry very much, considering their limited range of motion, but Harry did not voice these concerns. Instead, he turned his complete attention to Tom, feeling the familiar weight of Tom’s magic glide over his skin like a breeze.

“Show me, then.” Harry stated, staring at Tom curiously. Harry did not know what to expect honestly, the silence between them hanging heavily as Harry waited for something to pop into existence. The seconds stretched to minutes, and Harry wondered idly if Tom had somehow drained himself of energy again.

It had been happening more often now, and it worried Harry immensely. It also did not help that their time together was slowly coming to an end, graduation looming over them like a dark specter.

“Tom?” Harry hedged, unable to hide the worry in his tone when Tom failed to answer.

_Merlin._

Harry quickly rose from where he was sitting, pressing his fingers into the familiar glass in hopes that it’d jolt the man back into awareness. But Tom did not answer despite the desperation in Harry’s fingers.

_Something has gone horribly wrong._

Harry was about to call Tom’s name once more when he felt something ripple in the air. The familiar magic hanging on Harry’s skin _moved_ , like the mirror was casting magic only Harry could sense.

Harry glanced into the mirror, expecting to see his own worried gaze, but what he saw strangled all the air from his lungs.

Instead of Harry’s familiar wild hair and bright green eyes, he saw a young man instead. A man so beautiful that Harry nearly pinched himself to snap himself out of his stupor. The man quirked his head to the side as if regarding Harry, and Harry could do nothing but stare. His mouth opening and closing as he tried to make sense of the man on the other side of the smooth glass.

_Sweet Morgana._

He could not have been older than twenty. Maybe twenty-five if Harry was being generous.

He was dressed in black robes, no sign of the ties students at Hogwarts typically wore to announce their house allegiances. His hair was styled meticulously, not a single hair out of place—save for a single curl that settled on his forehead—which drew Harry’s eyes almost helplessly to it. He looked like someone Harry would imagine on the covers of those magazines Pavarti and Lavender gushed over during lunch. His eyes were black, so dark that Harry felt like he might be swallowed up by them if he looked deeply into them.

It made something in Harry’s mind itch, unsure exactly at how to even address the situation in front of him.

Could this be Tom? Harry had no clue, absolutely tongue tied as he tried to say something that would not make him sound like an absolute idiot.

“Are you alright, Harry?” the familiar voice from the mirror asked, except now he could see the person that had uttered them. Harry had thought the man’s voice was absolutely enthralling, but the effect of seeing it come from singlehandedly the most handsome boy Harry had ever seen…well, Harry had no bloody clue what to say.

That did answer Harry’s most pressing question, at least.

“Ah, erm, yes.” Harry winced at how much of a bloody fool he sounded, the desire to press his face into his hands so strong that it took everything within Harry to resist the urge. Then the man smiled at him, and Harry thought he might pass out, realizing that at some point he had stopped breathing.

_I need to get it together._

“This is what I looked like before I was trapped. I can only do this for small periods of time, but I thought I might show you.” There was something teasing about Tom’s tone that made it difficult for Harry to mask the blush creeping up his neck, and he groaned when Tom smirked at him. He looked absolutely pleased at Harry’s own expense.

_Arse._

“I-it just caught me by surprise, is all.” Harry coughed into his hand, turning his attention away from those laser-like eyes to focus on the skin between Tom’s eyes. It was a much safer place to look; he felt less exposed there.

He didn’t know what it was about Tom that made it so difficult to gather his composure, to not make a fool of himself. Normally, he could laugh that off because he knew that Tom could not actually see the silly things Harry did, but the way Tom’s eyes followed the contours of his face, drinking his fill as if he’d never seen something quite like him before, was another matter entirely.

Tom could _see_ him, and Harry was at a loss at how to mask the several shades of emotions dancing across his face.

Harry was sure shock and embarrassment were the most prevalent, choosing not to dwell long on the other emotions he tucked into the recesses of his mind. He’d address those later. Or preferably never, if he had his way.

“Am I what you expected? I understand that the mirror has likely given you a far better impression of what I could look like.” Tom sounded almost sad, but Harry knew the man was not. Tom’s eyes gave him away, the amusement swirling in them enough to snap Harry out of his stupor.

 “Oh yes, I was expecting a complete troll. I am almost disappointed.” Harry teased, and he could see the way Tom’s shoulders shook as if trying to repress his laughter. Harry could not help smiling at that, his embarrassment long forgotten as he reached out to touch the glass without thought.

It had quickly become a habit for him. He really could not help himself.

Harry closed his eyes when he smoothed his entire palm on the glass, feeling Tom’s magic envelope him. It teased at his skin, reaching out to Harry’s own magic tucked deeply in his chest.

“I apologize for not meeting those expectations. Though, you have definitely far surpassed my own, Harry. You have loveliest green eyes.”

Harry grimaced, a familiar pain cutting through him despite the very nice compliment. His mother had his eyes, many had told him. Harry tried not to let the memory of her loss get to him, not when Tom had probably expended so much energy to show Harry what he had looked like.

“Thank you, Tom.” Harry whispered, darting his gaze away from the mirror to survey the room. He had not stopped touching the glass, but Harry doubted he could keep himself together if he looked into Tom’s eyes. He didn’t want to spoil the mood.

“What’s wrong? Did I say something to upset you?” Tom’s voice was soothing, cutting through the tension in Harry’s shoulder. Tom would not judge him for his moment of weakness **;** he had listened to Harry when he had cried about the loss of his parents. He had been a source of strength, of reassurance and clarity in a moment where everyone waited for Harry to break. Tom had allowed him to shatter, but helped pick himself back up.

The loss of his parents was still rather fresh, only two months now. But it did not mean that little things did not crack his shields.

“My mum’s eyes were like mine. My dad, when he would tuck me into bed as a boy would tell me that it was like having mum around when she was at work.” Harry said, scrunching up the courage to look at Tom.

The boy did not look at him pityingly, but there was a grim line to his lips. He looked displeased, but Harry could tell that it was not likely at Harry, but at himself.

“I apologize, I did not mean to reopen wounds.” And Tom meant the words, the sincerity in them enough to draw a small smile from Harry’s lips. Harry did not know what he could have done to have found such a person. He understood Harry on a level that, at times, neither Hermione nor Ron were prepared to.

He still loved them. But Tom knew what exactly to say.

“It’s fine, Tom. I know you didn’t mean anything by it.” Harry stared into Tom’s face, taking in the smoothness of his skin as he did. It made Harry feel uncomfortable in a way, he had never a noticed a boy the way he noticed Tom.

He didn’t know what to make of it, so he ignored that pressing issue. Choosing instead to focus on something other than his strange feelings.

“Now-,” Harry started, poking at the glass in the mirror in emphasis. “I hope you do this often. It’s nice to finally see a face behind the voice.”

Harry instantly saw the way Tom preened at the comment, a pleased look in his eyes that did little for Harry’s sanity. “Of course, Harry. It will make our progress much more efficient.”

Harry nodded at that, turning away from Tom quickly to gather the books he had piled for research.

Harry saw something flash in the mirror as he did, a disturbing image that made Harry stumble, books tumbling out of his hands. Harry could have sworn he had seen a monster in the glass for a second. A serpent man with eyes as red as blood.

It was such a quick flash that Harry was unsure he had even seen it at all.

“Something the matter?” Harry heard speak from behind him. Harry inhaled deeply, gathering his courage as he did, before turning to Tom.

Tom looked exactly as he had left him. Except not—there was a questioning look on his face.

Harry smiled sheepishly at him, crouching to gather the books he had dropped.

“Nothing, thought I saw something.”

Harry always did have quite the wild imagination.


	5. Chapter 5

 “Tom. I’ve looked through every corner of that library. Even snuck into the Restricted section for an answer, and I have found nothing even remotely helpful.” Harry ran his fingers through his hair, the frustration in the gesture evident.

He had been searching for months, graduation now in a few days. He had tried to keep his unease hidden as he went through the motions for classes, but there was no hiding that he was terrified of what this could mean for Tom.

He had been debating whether he could take the mirror with him should Harry fail to find an answer in time, but the prospect seemed rather bleak. He needed to settle all the affairs of his estate now that his parents were gone and it left Harry with little wiggle room.

There was also the fact that Tom was massive. He couldn’t just walk out of Hogwarts with a mirror hanging under his arm. That would definitely go _swimmingly_ with his friends.

_Yes, yes, Hermione, Ron, don_ _’_ _t mind me. I am just lugging a huge mirror across the hall. It is the typical life of yours truly._

“Perhaps the answer is not here, Harry. If you take me outside with you, we can acquire more books that are likely not permitted here.” Harry groaned at that, already imagining how much of a sodding mess his place was going to be.

Where would he even put Tom? The mirror really was monstrous, it easily could take up an entire wall.

“ _I know_ but I was just hoping we could get you freed before I left. There are still many things I need to settle. I’ve been in school all term helping you and I’ve given very little thought to all that stuff back at home…” Harry chewed on his lip, getting off his arse to pace around the room to think.

His parents were gone and they had left him with so much money it was obscene. He had tried to get some additional help on the matter, but the goblins weren’t exactly the most forthcoming creatures in the wizarding world. He could have asked Sirius, but with the way his godfather handled his own financial affairs, Harry was more likely to end up bankrupt than anything else.

“I could help you settle your affairs if you take me with you.” Harry turned his attention to regard the man in the mirror, noting the casual air to Tom’s tone. “My orphan status made me rather good with handling financial duties. I could provide you some advice in exchange for staying in your home. As well as repayment for all the energy you have spent trying to help me.”

Harry mulled it over, turning his attention away from Tom for a moment to avoid getting distracted by the man. Harry often got lost looking into the man’s eyes, counting the lashes on each individual eye instead of finishing his sentences or thoughts. Tom had called him out on it one too many times, and each time was more embarrassing than the last.

This was a serious matter and Harry could not afford to get distracted now.

“I suppose we could do that. Though there is also the issue of getting you out of here. You’re not exactly inconspicuous or light. You’d give me a hernia lugging you out of here.” Harry heard Tom laugh then, the sound rich and decadent compared to his own voice.

Had he said something funny?

“Oh, _Harry_. You are a delight. Is your friend not proficient with extension charms? You could ask her to charm your bag.” Tom tried to keep his composure, but when he saw the genuine confusion on Harry’s face, it made his careful control snap once again.

“That’s _not_ funny.” Harry pouted, feeling embarrassment and irritation heat at his skin. He wasn’t an idiot, he was just accustomed to doing things a certain way. Just because you were a wizard did not mean muggle methods were archaic.

“I disagree. I mean you no offense, but I hope you did not plan to actually carry me through the halls considering my size.” Harry did not say a word in denial and that only made the man laugh more richly.

_He_ _’_ _s such an arse._

“If you keep this up, I am just going to leave you here to rot!” Harry snapped, huffing when the man had not stopped laughing at him. _Honestly._

“Alright, alright. I’ll stop. Just consider what I told you, it would make things more…smoothly.” Tom’s tone was reassuring, but Harry could still see the amusement in his dark gaze.

“Honestly, I don’t know why I put up with you.” Harry complained, settling on the dusty chair beside the mirror.

“Why, indeed…” Tom murmured, sarcasm thick in his tone.

Harry ignored the comment and focused instead on one of the newest books he had found. Ignoring the way Tom’s magic curled possessively around him underneath the dim light.


	6. Chapter 6

The day of Harry’s graduation, he could hardly focus on the excitement happening around him. He could see the grins on the faces of his peers, the proud glow in the eyes of their parents as they walked their final steps in the massive halls. It was a day of great celebration, but Harry could hardly stomach the affair.

He was the only one without parents to greet him, the only one without parents to cheer for him as he walked through the hall to receive his certificate of completion. The Weasleys cheered for him, as did Hermione’s parents when he walked, but it was not the same. It would never replace the mum that would sing to him as she cooked their meals, or his dad who would clap him on the shoulder for another round of Exploding Snaps.

Sirius was there for him, but he looked just about as uncomfortable as Harry did with all the excitement in the air. Neither of them had words to say, their minds dwelling on the loss of the most important persons in their lives.

It was almost a relief when everyone started to take their leave.

“Harry, I-“ Sirius began, but Harry beat him to the punch.

“It’s fine. I understand if you want to leave. I still have something to do before I go.” Harry smiled ruefully at him, understanding that being in Hogwarts where Sirius had made most of his memories with his parents…was quite painful. “We can meet afterwards. Maybe get some dinner.”

Sirius nodded at him, his look grateful before he popped out of existence.

Harry was left alone in the hall, everyone having left in the time Sirius and Harry had been speaking. The dining hall looked massive with just him there―not that it normally wasn’t. It had always been large, the fake sky looming above them emphasizing just how small they were in the grand scheme of things.

He sighed before making his way across the room, slipping through the shadows to avoid the prying eyes of anyone that could have lingered in the castle. He did not feel like dealing with people more than he had already―having said his goodbyes to Ron and Hermione earlier in the morning to let them know that he would not be joining them for celebrations.

They had been adamant, a set to their jaws that would normally have convinced Harry to tag along. But Harry had been equally as obstinate, and they had eventually caved. The worry in their eyes enough to make Harry guilty, but there was no helping it.

He needed to see Tom before he left. He had no way of knowing how long it would be before he could take him with him.

Tom had promised that he’d help Harry with his family situation, but Harry could not allow it. After sleeping on that conversation, it was best that Harry handle that situation on his own. Harry would never heal if he kept avoiding his issues, hiding away in the Room of Hidden Things with Tom rather dealing with the world that was quickly leaving him behind.

He needed to apply for a job as well. Harry knew he would be hired at the Auror department, but there was always the chance they’d make him stow before they did. They had to keep appearances and all that. Favoritism just because Harry happened to be James Potter’s son would not be a good selling point for the department.

Walking down the familiar hallway, the corridor smaller than most of the castle, Harry stood in front of a seemingly empty wall. Finally arriving to his destination. He watched the wall ripple, before a door suddenly appeared where there was previously nothing at all. It was large, similar to the ones along the same corridor, but the size of it alone set it apart from all the others. Harry did not wait before he opened the door and entered, taking in the stale smell of old furniture hanging in the air as he did.

Harry did not hesitate as he moved, twisting around the towers of rubbish as he went. He could sense Tom’s magic as he moved, its allure growing stronger with each step he took. It felt familiar. Welcome even.

He needed to say goodbye.

“Harry.” Tom’s voice seemed to echo through the room, the silky quality to it enough to elicit a shiver down Harry’s spine. “Is it time for us to go?” Tom’s voice was curious, but there was something to the tone that made Harry still, his gaze shifting away from his dark eyes.

“No, I’m not taking you with me. I need to do this alone.” Harry heard Tom take a breath, but did not attempt to look him in the eyes **,** knowing that Tom would not be happy with his choice. Tom was stubborn, but Harry was more so. It wasn’t like Tom could really do anything to stop him, considering his unique circumstances.

“How do I know you will even come back?” Tom’s inquired, his voice arctic. Harry felt his heart plummet at the sound, but he steeled himself. He would come back. He had given Tom his word.

“Do I seem like someone that will just abandon you? After all that you’ve done for me?” Harry felt hurt, but he understood in a way that Tom was worried not only for Harry, but for himself. If something happened to Harry, Tom would be all alone again. Harry was the only link he had to the outside world, and after all this time, Harry doubted that Tom would want to risk being trapped here for another two decades.

“Do not make me wait, Harry. I have waited enough.” Harry ignored the iciness in the man’s tone, approaching the mirror to lay what he hoped was a comforting hand on the glass.

“I won’t.” Harry promised before stepping away.

“Just be a little patient.”

Harry turned away from the mirror, shivering at the way Tom’s magic clung to his skin as if trying to restrain him.


	7. Chapter 7

Harry had hoped he would get his affairs squared away within the month, but between the long interview process (as if he wasn’t going to be hired, honestly), and Hermione’s chokehold on his financial troubles, Harry had no time to ask Hermione to charm his bag.

It was four months before he managed to surface for air.

Four bloody months that Tom would never forgive him for.

Harry groaned into his hands as he stood before the familiar wooden door. Tom would not be happy. He had promised that he was not going to make him wait long, and between one thing or another, half a  year almost slipped passed his fingers.

If it weren’t for Ginny, Harry would likely have made the man wait even longer. Forget four months, it could have been a bloody year.

He gathered his courage, patting himself down to remove any stray powder that clung to his robes, before entering the room.

The smell of mold and stale air assaulted him immediately.

Harry inhaled slowly to prevent himself from sneezing at the muskiness in the air before heading down the familiar path he had walked religiously almost all of seventh year.

The furniture looked just as he had left it―broken and riddled with holes. It was calming despite the anxious energy building in his gut.

It had been a long time since he had spoken to Tom, and although Ginny had been around to make up for his absence, Harry missed the man immensely.

Perhaps he could even introduce him to Ginny if Harry managed to free the man.

“Tom?” Harry called out nervously.

He turned the corner as he spoke, and he froze, catching his own reflection on the familiar glass. The magic there coiled almost immediately around Harry, nothing like the gentle caresses Harry was accustomed to. It felt like it was going to swallow him whole, eat away at his flesh until there was nothing left but the his glasses and the clothes he wore.

It was…admittedly very creepy.

“ _Harry!_ _”_ Harry jumped at the cry, the sound of it nothing like the voice Harry had often nodded off to when reclining against the mirror. “ _Harry_ _…_ _._ ”

Harry paused in front of the mirror, unsure if he should touch Tom at all. Tom had never behaved this way before, always patient with him even when Harry was being particularly difficult. Had Harry pushed him too hard?

“I’m sorry for making you wait so long. Everything was a total mess.” Harry stammered, trying to ignore the harsh grip Tom’s magic had on him. It felt like Tom was about to rip him to pieces rather than embrace him.

“ _You gave me your word!_ _”_ Harry flinched at Tom’s hiss, the desperation heavy in his voice. The sound of it alone had Harry closing the distance, pressing himself against the mirror in an awkward embrace. It was awkward, his body unable to wrap around the whole thing but he hoped that the gesture would be enough to soothe Tom.

“I-I know. If it weren’t for Ginny, you would have probably had to wait longer. I got here as fast as I could.” Harry sighed, his breath fanning against the glass.

“Who is Ginny? You have never mentioned her before.” Tom’s voice sounded steadier, but Harry could still tell that the man had not entirely recovered from his desolation. His magic kept pulling at Harry, though it no longer felt like it was trying to chew Harry up before swallowing him down.

“She’s Ron’s sister. She’s been very helpful. Helping me move things around the house and just keep me sane while I dealt with the mess I made.” Harry scrunched his nose at the thought, feeling Tom slowly calm down with every second Harry stood in the room.

Harry had honestly expected a worse reaction than this. He’d probably have ripped Tom a new arsehole if their roles had been reversed.

“I brought the bag to take you in. Just as you suggested.” Harry made to step away, but Tom’s magic suddenly clenched down so painfully on him that he stopped moving altogether.

_Seems like I spoke too soon._

“You will remain where you are.” Tom’s voice was all steel.

“But―“ Harry started, but Tom did not allow him to finish.

“ _Silence_.” Harry’s lips clamped shut at the finality in Tom’s tone.

Harry did not know what to make of this new Tom. He had seen Tom upset before, but never quite like _this._

They were both silent for what felt like an eternity, Harry’s arms starting to go numb from remaining in the same strange hugging position. He could feel Tom’s magic press down on him, coaxing his own to respond as if trying to familiarize itself once again to Harry’s own magic.

“Never leave me like this again, Harry.” Tom sounded more like himself when he broke the silence, his magic tapering off to free Harry from the asphyxiating pressure it had on him.

Harry did not bother to respond, choosing instead to untangle himself from Tom. The magic did not try to keep him hostage this time, and Harry was grateful for that.

“Alright, let’s get us back home!”

Harry chirped, though strained, before pointing his wand at Tom.

Harry hoped that Tom forgave him soon. Tom was frightening when he was upset.


	8. Chapter 8

Harry gasped awake, his skin clammy with his sweat as he tried to calm his racing heart. He inhaled deeply, ignoring the dampness of his sheets, as he counted his breaths individually.

_One. Two. Three. Breathe._

With each recitation, Harry felt the trembling in his limbs begin to pass. It was some nice advice Tom had given him after a week of waking with a scream threatening to escape from his throat. Breathing helped settle his body, cleared his mind of the nauseating disgust and panic he really had no clue where it stemmed from.

Sleep and Harry had never quite gotten along. But this was an entirely new development.

It had been difficult to sleep when his parents had died, images of his parents’ smiling faces enough to wake him up with burning in his eyes. But Harry understood those dreams.

He _remembered_ those. Though he often wished he didn’t.

At first, he had constantly dreamt of how his parents died. His job at the Auror’s department adding fuel to his own imagination each night. His job definitely had not done him any favors, especially with the new homicides filtering inside.

But those dreams were few and far between and were getting much easier to manage.

Though he could not completely take the credit for that. Ginny had been supportive from the moment he had approached Ron and Hermione for help. She helped him around the house when he could barely scrape the energy to make something to eat or simply listened to him. She listened to him vent about the troubles at work, the images of corpses and crazed dancing behind the back of his eyes as he spoke. She listened to him when Hermione and Ron could not; temporarily filling the hole that Tom’s absence left.

But she also spoke too. She told him of her days in the Holyhead Harpies. She told him of the days she spent drinking with her team, dancing the night away with friends she had made in a brand new continent.

He felt weightless listening to her talk of her successes out in the field, harkening back to his own days as a Seeker for the Gryffindor team.

He missed those simple days.

He knew there was no getting those back. His parents were gone and all he had left of them were his memories and the pitying glances from his coworkers at the department.

He didn’t need any more worries on his shoulders, but it seemed that fate found every opportunity to ruin the little peace he had when he found it.

Like his newer set of nightmares.

He really didn’t have an explanation for those. Hell, he wasn’t even sure they were even nightmares at all, the memory quickly fading from his mind before he opened his eyes.

The only clue that he had as to the nature of them was the sticky feeling on his skin when he woke up and the panic coursing through his veins. Harry was sure that if he was not experiencing either of those things, he wouldn’t even know he was having them.

Then there was the fact that Harry couldn’t even remember when he had gone to bed. The night blurring into the foreground and existing only in small snippets that he managed to wrangle back into existence. He recalled speaking to Ginny over at the hearth, her voice soothing his anxieties as he confessed his worries about finding another mutilated corpse. He also remembered heading to the kitchen after saying his goodbyes, passing Tom as he went in in search of a knife to cut some bread for the following morning.

He hadn’t found it.

And that was precisely where everything started to come apart at the seams.

Harry remembered speaking to Tom at some point after looking for the knife. Harry recalled Tom greeting him, his voice warm and pleasant to his own ears as it always was. It sounded muffled in his brain, and Harry remembered approaching him―

Then _nothing_.

Perhaps he had gone straight to bed after?

Harry groaned underneath the faint light of the morning sun, reaching for his glasses at his bedside table. He felt their thin frames underneath his fingers after groping for them for ten minutes, cursing himself for placing them so _bloody_ far. He placed them on the bridge of his nose, the blurred edges of the furniture and the posters on his wall coming into focus.

Harry looked down at himself, finding that he had gone to bed in one of his sleep shirts and his boxers. No different than what he typically wore to bed.

Harry mulled over his attire, wondering if he should ask Tom to fill the gaps to his missing memory, before squashing the idea. It was only a couple hours, surely, and Harry _had_ been tired the previous day. He had been swamped trying to keep onlookers from stumbling into another crime scene. Practically assaulted by some of the reporters with a series of questions that even if he had the answers to, he was not allowed even to entertain.

Besides, it would be strange to ask Tom what he did last night. Tom would not let the question slide and Harry was in no mood to be peppered with questions so early in the morning.

It had only been one week since Harry had brought Tom home and it still felt rather strange that he finally had him here. Harry was used to having to wait hours in the day before he could see Tom, but now, after four months of his absence, Harry was unsure of how to even talk to him.

He still felt that awkward squirming in his stomach every time Tom manifested his human self, but that was the least of his concerns. Every time Harry passed him, Harry wanted nothing more than to sit beside him in the dark and just talk. Discuss possible books that could yield some sort of answer to Tom’s unique predicament.

But Tom had not been the same since Harry had left him.

Harry did not want to get up, but he knew would be late to work if he didn’t. His bed was comfortable and after months of redecorating, his little cottage was finally in much better shape since his parents had passed. It was shocking to him that so much time had passed since their deaths; it still felt rather fresh in his mind.

As if at any moment, they were going to burst into his room with his favorite breakfast snacks and a cheery greeting.

Harry’s lips twisted into a frown, stung by the memory.

_Okay, time to get up._

He rose from his bed, ignoring how moist he felt before bee-lining to the loo. He needed to wash the salt from his skin, along with all the memories that had managed to filter their way into his heart. He was in for a rough day at the Auror’s department today and it would be pointless to start it already nearing a breakdown.

They had a string of dead wizards in their wake―each no less mutilated than the last save for a new missing limb.

It had everyone in the department boggled. It was uncommon for wizards to murder one another in such a way, apparently ignoring the fact that serial killers were an _actual thing_ and not some apparition that existed only in the muggle world. When Harry had first heard the shocked whispers of his superiors, he had almost scoffed at the sheer ignorance.

He supposed this was what happened when wizards, despite having finally defeating Grindelwald’s regime, had yet to realize that muggles could be dangerous themselves and no different than wizards. Though, it definitely was not a muggle doing the butchering.

Every crime scene had the heavy smell of dark, oppressive magic in the air. It mingled with the iron scent of blood and the foul smell of death.

He turned the water on in the shower, disrobing before plunging into the near-scalding stream. He remembered how his mum would scold him for turning it on too hot, worried that one day he might acquire some second degree burns for this habit.

He chuckled at the memory, the familiar burning in his eyes the only warning he had that he had started crying in the shower.

He was such an emotional wreck. This job was not doing much for his sanity.

He quickly lathered the soap against his skin, rinsing it away a second after lathering, before jumping out. If he wasn’t careful, he might end up spending the entire day in there just to avoid going in to work.

“Harry? You’re going to be late.” Harry heard Tom call from the living room, his voice light and pleasant. If it weren’t for Tom, Harry would honestly have been fired for never getting to work on time.

“Yeah, yeah, I am almost done.” Harry shouted back, grabbing the first pair of trousers he saw along with a comfortable looking T-shirt from the cupboard and his wand.

Harry quickly slipped into his pants, storming out of the room and heading for the kitchen to prepare something light. He was really only going to have tea, he didn’t think it was safe to have anything heavier than that considering how disgusting the crime scenes were. He had been told that he would get used to the atrocities that came in, and Harry sincerely hoped that happened sooner rather than later.

He’d almost thrown up a few times already just from the smell. The sight of the bodies weren’t exactly a picnic either. The sight of unseeing eyes, blood splattered on the hard concrete, and the twisted looks of horror on the faces of the victims was enough to turn any stomach. He wondered how anyone could even think to murder people that way.

The Killing Curse was quick. Probably painless. But the ways these victims were turning up definitely did not look painless.

He turned to greet Tom, smiling at him despite the morbid direction his thoughts had gone. Just because he was thinking about murder was not an excuse to be impolite, though Tom would likely not hold his silence against him. He knew what Harry did for a living. He also knew with clear detail what it was that Harry had been in charge of handling too, even though he wasn’t exactly playing the most influential role in the investigation.

“Morning.” Harry said, slipping into his shirt before focusing on the mirror.

Harry jolted when he realized that Tom’s human form was reflected in the clear glass, his lips curved into a pleased smile with an unreadable look to his eyes. Harry tried not to ponder too deeply on the look, choosing instead to return a smile of his own before silently casting to get his tea started.

It was one of those things Harry did not bother to question. Not if he wanted to maintain his cool. Tom had a way about him to flip things around―to push at his buttons in such a way that Harry was always either too embarrassed or perturbed to continue with his questioning.

Sure, Tom wasn’t outright evasive. The man answered all of Harry’s questioned when asked, but it never felt like Harry quite _knew_ him. For all of Harry’s openness, Tom was the reverse. Always speaking with a calculation to his tone that it made Harry wonder if the man ever said a thing without thinking hard about revealing it first.

Harry had to admit that it bothered him. Completely irked him to know that Harry had practically bared his soul to Tom, but Tom could not find it in himself to do the same.

Harry wanted Tom to confide in him just as he did Tom. He wanted to protect him as well, to unearth his secrets and lock them away in his own mind.

He wanted Tom to trust him, but the man, for all his warmth, always maintained his distance.

It made Harry regret leaving him for as long as he did. Harry suspected Tom would never quite forgive him for leaving him alone for four months. It was the only thing restraining Harry from confronting him about his evasiveness.

_This is complete bollocks._

“Good morning, Harry.” Tom greeted him, the unfamiliar look in his gaze melting into one of amusement when Harry tripped on his feet trying to get his shoes on. Harry ignored the blush on his cheeks, choosing instead to scowl at Tom before heading into the kitchen to prepare his tea.

He grabbed a thermos from the sink before whispering an _Aguamenti_ to fill the tea kettle with water. He had just turned on the stove when Harry felt the hairs on his arm begin to stand on end, Tom’s magic having slithered over the nape of his neck.

“ _Tom!_ _”_ Harry admonished, nearly dropping his wand when the magic enveloped him. The tendrils clung onto his body like a second skin, leaving him no room to even move. It admittedly was not the first time Tom had done something like this, but it did not mean that it wasn’t _annoying_. “I’m trying to get the tea going. I _do_ need to go into work.”

Tom did not respond to his complaint, the loosening of Tom’s magic on Harry’s body the only indication that Tom had heard him.

 _Good_.

Harry jumped when the tea kettle went off, reminding him that he had not moved from the position he was in for the past ten minutes.

_Shit, I_ _’_ _m going to be late if I don_ _’_ _t hurry._

“That reminds me, I invited Ginny over for dinner. I hope you don’t mind? We can research later this evening when she leaves.” Harry quickly shut off the stove, then pulled out the various tea bags he had stuck in the boiling water before pouring all the liquid into his thermos.

He nearly dropped the kettle in his haste, noticing that he had fifteen minutes to get to the Ministry when he caught sight of the time on his clock.

“Harry―“ Harry did not let Tom finish.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to be late. We’ll talk later!” Harry capped the thermos, before turning quickly to give Tom a sheepish grin.

And then he was gone, failing to notice the hard set to Tom’s jaw.


	9. Chapter 9

Harry startled awake, breaths coming in quickly as he tried to make sense of where he was. It was pitch black in the room, the softness beneath him doing little to ease his nerves as he tried to make sense of his jumbled memories.

He recalled eating dinner with Ginny, her warm brown eyes glittering with humor and affection. He remembered the happiness he felt at listening to her latest adventure in France, of the differences between the ways wizards conducted themselves there versus how they did in Britain. He remembered laughing at the terrible accent she tried to mimic, much too similar to Fleur Delacour’s to be a coincidence.

Harry could not recall any further details than that, but he knew that he had talked to her late into the evening; having lost track of time sharing stories about Ron and Hermione after Ginny’s embarrassing stab at a French accent. Ron and Hermione’s relationship finally shifted away from the naïve friendship of their days in Hogwarts and into a more mature romance that blossomed away from the prying eyes of their peers.

It was a great escape from the atrocity Harry had witnessed just that morning at work.

Another body had been found, completely unrecognizable near Knockturn Alley.

The victim’s ears had been surgically removed, the cut so clean that there was no mistake that this was the same killer that had been leaving body after body in his or her wake. It had become the murderer’s modus operandi―completely mutilating the victims before taking something from them.

Harry had been distraught at the find and he had been all too grateful that he had had the forethought to ask Ginny to have dinner with him the day before.

He knew he could talk to Tom about it, but he felt both guilty and unnerved with discussing such a morbid thing with him. Tom understood him on a level no one else did, but there was no tenderness about him.

At least, no tenderness since Harry had made the mistake to leave him rather than take him with him.

It was like walking around land mines every time Harry spoke to Tom, unsure if he was going to say something to trigger the man into one of his moods or if his comment would be brushed aside and taken as the joke that it was.

He missed the simpler days with Tom. He wanted to recline against Tom and simply speak to him as they used to. He wanted to give into that compulsion beneath his skin that begged him to air his secrets and wait for Tom to speak his own.

It was an innocent thought. Simple even.

But Tom had yet to forgive him.

Though it was moments like these that Harry knew he needed Tom more than ever. He had had another nightmare he could not remember, knowing well that the memory was there but unable to seize it. He wasn’t entirely sure he even want to know what they contained, but the listlessness in his form was slowly draining him of the little energy he had.

 This was the sixth time this month. It was becoming almost too much.

Harry groaned before rolling to his side in his bed, grimacing at the feeling of his own sweat-ridden sheets. It was becoming a bother to launder his sheets so much, but there was no helping the situation. Until he got to the bottom of why he was having those dreams, he would be spending copious amount of money on detergent. 

It didn’t help that it had become much worse since he had asked Ginny out.

It was nothing serious, just a couple dates. But it seemed that it added more unknown stress onto his shoulders.

Things would be easier if he would just go speak to Tom about it, he knew. He was being a stubborn git about the whole forgiveness thing. Tom had forgiven him, he had said it himself after Harry had finally gathered the courage to confront him last week.

But Harry still felt uneasy about the whole thing, as if the man had been hiding something from him.

 _I should just talk to him again_.

Harry sighed before forcing himself out of bed, grateful that it was the weekend. He wouldn’t need to come in and he was more than a little grateful that the next body they found would not be Harry’s responsibility.

At least, not for this shift.

He padded barefoot down the hall, turning in to catch sight of the Tom. The mirror was fluctuating with strange magic, the power of it latching onto Harry’s own with an ease that felt familiar and welcome. It was reminiscent of the times they both sat together in the dingy old room back in Hogwarts, not a single worry in Harry’s mind except getting Tom out of the mirror.

Harry could not help smiling as he approached, drinking in the sensation of Tom’s magic on his skin before pressing himself against the glass, his fingers already touching on the familiar carvings on the wood.

It was nostalgic.

“Good morning, Harry.” Tom murmured to him, the sound of it enough to make Harry press further into him. Perhaps, Harry had been worrying for nothing. Tom had been distanced, but he had given Harry his word that he had forgiven him. Tom had been much warmer than he had been initially, so there was definite improvement.

He simply had to be patient.

“Morning, Tom.” Harry sighed as Tom’s magic hugged him more firmly, the feel of it soothing after the unknown nightmare he had had before waking.

“How did you sleep?” Tom asked, his tone curious. It was a relatively innocent question at first glance, and perhaps, if it had been asked to anyone other than Harry, it would be exactly that. But this was Harry.

There was nothing innocent about what he dreamt, his work in the Auror department strangling all chances of his dreams being warm and comfortable. It was a question that Harry did not really want to answer, not when he was unsure himself. He knew his dream had not been pleasant, could smell it in the stench of nervous sweat on his sheets.

Harry swallowed nervously, debating how he would go about answering the question.

“Harry.” Tom’s voice was firm, the displeasure obvious in his tone. If it were anyone else, Harry would probably would have thrown a fit at the sound of Tom’s commanding tone. But this was Tom. Their relationship had not been the smoothest as of late, but that did not mean that Tom did it to purposefully get under Harry’s skin. The man just cared.

Even when upset, Tom’s concern was always for Harry. Tom had even stopped asking Harry to research his predicament, understanding that Harry was both physically and mentally exhausted from spending his days around tense deputies and dead bodies.

“Not well. I keep having nightmares that I can’t remember.” Harry hedged, feeling the way Tom’s magic flared up for a second before renewing its gentle caresses across his flesh.

“Again? This was the second time this week.” Harry ignored the palpable concern in Tom’s tone, choosing instead to focus on moving his fingers around the glass. It felt good to be able to do this again.

“Yeah, I think it might be all the stress from work. The nightmares line up with each instance I find a body.” Harry explained, drinking in Tom’s presence greedily. “I also started dating Ginny, nothing serious. Perhaps it is all adding up?”

Harry felt Tom’s magic suddenly flare up again, the power exploding around him like torrential rain. The strength of it was enough to crush Harry, seizing his longs so tightly that it became difficult to breathe. It felt suffocating, heavy―the pressure so tight that Harry wheezed.

It made Harry’s vision noticeably fuzzy, as if someone had forced his head into water. The sensation did not ease despite the black spots dancing in Harry’s gaze, the seconds quickly converting into minutes as he struggled to breathe.

_Merlin, I am going to pass out._

He twitched, but he was unable to move at all. His body molded so tightly to the mirror that he couldn’t have moved at all even if he tried. There was a voice screaming in his mind urging him to let go, _to move_ , the tenor of it so incredibly familiar.

But then, the pressure crushing Harry’s lung dissipated. Like smoke escaping from a gun that had fired seconds before.

The pervasive magic settled into a purr across his skin, the sudden rush of air coming into Harry’s lung enough to make him gasp and sputter.

When Harry finally to reign in his breathing, he did not hesitate to glare at the mirror. Anger and betrayal acidic in the back of his throat.

“What the _hell_ was that?” Harry sputtered indignantly, trying to pull away from where he had pressed himself closely into Tom, but abandoning the attempt when Tom’s magic refused to release him. He chose instead to close his hands into tight fists, sorely tempted to punch into the glass. It was completely uncalled for and unbelievable that Tom had very nearly strangled him.

If Harry had not been near passing out, he would have believed he had imagined the entire thing.

“I’m sorry, Harry. I-I don’t know what that was. I admit…I was overridden with deep concern for your situation and my…magic has a bit of a mind of its own.” Tom sounded apologetic, but Harry was not comforted. He was angry, more than a little betrayed that Tom would even think to do something like that to him.

 “C-concern? You lost complete control of yourself! You practically choked the life out of me.” Harry spat, finally managing to pull away from Tom when Tom’s magic loosened its hold around him. Tom, for all his poise and class, was relatively harmless. The only thing he had over Harry was the element of surprise and the power of his magic.

Aside from that, if Harry was anyone else, he could do some serious damage to him.

“Harry―“ Tom began, Harry did not allow the man to finish his rubbish attempt of apologizing.

“Don’t.” Harry raised his hand up, the single word uttered with such ferocity that Tom immediately ceased speaking. “I’ve been meaning to ask, have you actually forgiven me at all? You’re distanced, cold even. Don’t you remember what you said back in seventh year?”

Harry was fuming, not really wanting a response to his question. He knew that Tom remembered his promise to him, the man was like a bloody elephant. Never forgetting a single thing that is said to him, always recalling the details of the texts Harry read to him or he read himself when he had started materializing late in Harry’s final year at Hogwarts.

“You said you’d forgiven me, and I almost even started to believe it. But you haven’t at all. I _want_ for things to be as they used to, I trust you completely but you don’t trust me all.” Harry was breathing harshly, the anger no longer as noxious. His mind felt clearer getting the words long buried in his mind out, he felt lighter for it. Relieved.

He should have done this sooner.

“You are my closest friend, Tom. I meant it when I said I wanted to get you out of the mirror. I meant all of those things. You may have asked me to stop for my own peace of mind, but you know that I value you.” Harry’s anger completely left him then, disappointment replacing the emotion. He hated the feeling.

Anger he was used to, preferred. But disappointment, that was completely out of his area of expertise.

“I want you to be there for my successes and failures. To introduce you to my friends, to Ginny.” Harry felt Tom’s magic flare at that, but it quickly settled into a hum. So fast that if Harry had not been so attuned to Tom, he might have missed it entirely.

“I’ll give you your space if you need it, I’ll understand. But don’t treat me like dirt and push me away like this.” Harry felt so exhausted at the end of his rant that he was tempted to head immediately back to bed.

That was another thing. He felt so exhausted all the time now. It was becoming more difficult to get up in the mornings, his limbs sluggish and achy. Almost as if he had spent the whole night awake rather than asleep in his bed.

“…I did not intend to make you feel that way, Harry.” Tom began, a strange tone to his voice. To Harry, it sounded like the man was trying to carefully arrange his words, as if he’d never had to deal with a situation quite like this before. “I have forgiven you, Harry. But your behavior as of late has been disconcerting. I have not been pulling away from you, it is _you_ who has stopped reaching out to me.”

Harry made to protest, but Tom’s magic flared out, as if sensing Harry’s intentions. Harry stopped, choosing to hear him out since Tom had given him the same courtesy.

“I have given you your space, noting with growing concern that your duties in the Auror department has been consuming quite a lot of your mental fortitude.” Tom was slow, his voice silky as Harry fought back his desire to deny it.

“You do not share with me your thoughts, choosing to hole yourself in your rooms. And if you are out of your room, Harry, you spend your time in the company of Miss Weasely.” Tom sounded bitter then, and Harry was completely baffled by the poison in the man’s tone. Not even when the man had been upset at him, his magic exploding around the Room of Requirement with anger and desperation, did Tom ever sound this bitter.

Harry did not know what to even say, his tongue heavy in his mouth.

Had he really been distancing himself?

“I did not intend to lose my patience with you. It was completely inappropriate to let out my frustrations against you. I just hope that you can see it from my perspective. I am bound to these four walls in your home, unable to experience the world as you do. The only contact I have is you, Harry. If you distance yourself from me, you sever my ties to the world as I have come to know it.”

Harry was at a loss for words.

“You are more than my friend, Harry Potter. You are _my_ world.” Tom’s words made something clench in Harry’s gut―it felt like he free falling without a broom.

They were both silent after that.

Harry wanted to say something to that, but the words did not come. He knew that he should at least respond, but there was something about the man’s confession that was too much for Harry to handle. Tom’s words held more meaning than Harry was capable of understand, he knew. He could sense the implications of it, the promise of _more_ hanging between the spaces of each utterance that he could not quite gather his courage to address.

Harry knew more than he cared to acknowledge. But he could be mistaken.

If it were another man and this another circumstance, then perhaps Harry would have been more convinced of the suspicions he felt. But this was Tom, a charming, intelligent man that, as much as Harry wished wasn’t the case, was untouchable and would never quite reciprocate the feelings Harry had developed through the course of their interactions.

It was because of Tom that Harry realized he liked men.

Harry exhaled sharply when Tom’s magic pulled away from his skin, the absence of it leaving Harry feeling more alone than he had felt in a long time.

“I’m sorry, Tom. I didn’t realize I was―“Harry stopped, unsure, before continuing. “I won’t avoid talking to you about what I see at work. But don’t think that you can get away with hiding yourself from me.”

Harry brushed the hair away from his face, repositioning his glasses.

“If we are going to mend this, you will have to be just as honest with me as I will with you.”

Tom was silent for a moment.

“You have yourself a deal. I will be nothing but honest with you.” Harry noted the teasing quality to the man’s voice. But there was something more there that Harry could not quite place. He sounded pleased, thrilled even of the prospect.

Harry did not know what to make of that.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves, the following chapters to come are the reason for the E rating. 
> 
> Conduct yourselves accordingly, if you are uncomfortable with explicit description of blood and violence, I recommend you not continue reading.
> 
> On another note, kudos and leave comments! This is my first multichaptered story (though I set out to write a one-shot, so there may be details I may not explain due to this)

Harry felt something like dread threaten to splatter into the wood floors beneath him. He had had another nightmare, the images just as hidden as the rest. He remembered darkness, a pervasive black beneath his eyelids that he wanted to scratch the vivid color away from his retinas.

He remembered feeling weighed down, the pressure enough to bring him to his knees and even further below. He felt one with the dirt and the grime in the floor, as if he was merely another speck in the universe rather than Auror Harry Potter.

He was no one there. He was completely empty and everything all at once, as if his soul had been stretched to its limits and further beyond it. He was a rubber band ready to snap, the splitting of each corner threatening to spill his essence to the ground.

He felt like he was going to be sick when he woke up that evening, the crawling in his limbs enough to force him to slip from his sheets and straight to the loo.

He pressed his face into the toilet, uncaring that he had practically molded his face into the cold material before he was expelling what he had last eaten for dinner.

He didn’t know what he had eaten the day before, didn’t know when he had even arrived home from work. Everything around him for the past week had been a blur, the conversation with Tom the only fixed point in his memory.

They had managed to patch things up since their last discussion, and it had grown comfortable between them. Harry no longer hid his emotions behind a thin veneer of concern and Tom was more forthcoming with his thoughts and views―his face taking on different shades and hues of emotion that Harry wanted to commit to memory.

It was like art, seeing the different emotions that flitted across his pretty face. If Harry had been an artist, he would have wanted to document them.

But sadly he was rubbish at drawing, and he had to settle with his memory instead.

It was times like these that he wished Tom had a physical body to comfort him. His throat burned with acid, his mouth bitter with the flavor of his bile. He inhaled deeply through his nose, waiting for his stomach to settle.

His stomach was an angry ocean, roiling and twisting in ways that made Harry want to get off the boat. But there was no way to remove his stomach, at least no safe way to do it, so Harry was stuck waiting for the sickness to pass.

 _Merlin_.

It was a long time before Harry felt safe enough to rise from his position against the toilet.

But when he finally did, heading immediately to the sink to rifle through potions he kept tucked behind the mirror cabinet, he froze.

He saw himself reflected in the glass, his blurry form the sole presence in the glass. He had left his glasses back at his nightstand, the desire to puke too intense to even ponder on grabbing them. He was practically blind without them, but he still had enough clarity to make out some details.

He wished at this precise moment that he was blind. Unable to see why his hair felt wet and matted, and why his fingers were sticky and moist.

He was drenched in blood, the viscous fluid clinging to his head like a second skin.

Harry wanted to scream. He wanted to cry.

He wanted to go back to the toilet and throw up what he hadn’t already expelled from his angry stomach.

_Oh god, please no._

He couldn’t remember where he had been. He couldn’t remember what he did the previous evening. His brain came up empty, Tom’s voice the only thing he could really remember.

He needed to see Tom.

He stepped hastily from his own reflection, ignoring the trembling of his limbs when he fled from the bathroom and headed straight to the mirror propped against the living room wall.

He needed to see Tom. He doubted he could keep himself together any longer if he didn’t.

_Oh god, what had I_ _―_

“Harry? You’re drenched in blood.” Tom’s voice snapped him out of his panic, not quite realizing when exactly he had gotten from his bedroom and to the living room.

“I-I.” Harry could not think of any response, his heart beating rapidly in his chest. Tom was speaking again, but Harry could not register the man’s words. Tom’s voice sounded muffled, drowned out entirely by the sound of Harry’s blood rushing to his ears.

_So much blood. So red. It_ _’_ _s so red._

“Harry, look at me.” Harry snapped to look at Tom then, faintly registering that the man had at some point materialized in the mirror. He looked concerned, his lips pressed into a thin line.

Harry wanted nothing more than to scream his lungs out at that precise second. It wasn’t Harry’s imagination that he was coated in blood from head to toe. Tom could see the damning red on him too.

_It was real. Ohgodohgodohgod._

“I am going to need you to breathe slowly. You’re in shock.” Tom ordered, and Harry could only nod helplessly in response.

Harry breathed in slowly, and released a slow breath; watching how Tom surveyed him. There was something in his eyes that Harry did not understand, an emotion that he had never seen on the man’s face before.

When Harry felt his panic dissipate, his breathing easing the hysteria just inches underneath his skin, Tom smiled reassuringly at him. “I am going to need you to tell me what happened.”

Harry clenched his hands into fists, wincing when he felt dampness between his fingers.

_Oh god_ _―_

“Harry, shhh. It is going to be okay.” Harry did not feel like it was, but he tried to calm himself despite the voice in the back of his head shouting at him.

“I-I don’t know what happened. I don’t remember what I was doing the day before.” Harry whispered, unable to conceal the desperation in his voice as he tried to recall something from the previous night.

But all he came out with was an endless sea of black.

“Oh god Tom, what have I done.” Harry broke down again, realizing faintly that Tom had enveloped him with his magic. It made his skin feel warm and pleasant―but it did nothing to warm the ice in his gut. He felt numb and horrified all at once, unable to make sense of the blurred vision of Tom’s face in front of him.

Tom’s magic pushed at Harry until Harry clung to the mirror, the sensation of comfort stronger than it had been moments before now that he was pressed against the source.

“There has to be an explanation to this.” But Harry could think of none. There was too much red on his flesh, in the image flashing in his eyes to formulate an answer to this particular mystery.

“Tom, did you hear me leave? See me do anything strange?” Harry was desperate, clinging to Tom in the hopes that the man could put his nerves to rest. “Oh god, if I did something I don’t kn―“ Harry began, but Tom interrupted his words.

“No, we spoke briefly, bid each other good night. You went to bed dressed as you are now. I did not see or hear you leave your room the entire night.” Tom’s voice was confident, some of Harry’s anxiety melting at the sound it. “I would have heard you had you left, Harry. Perhaps one of your coworkers cursed your clothes? It would not be so shocking for them to prank you in such a fashion considering how strongly you react at crime scenes.”

In a way, Tom’s words made sense. The veteran Aurors made a show of poking at Harry’s weak stomach every chance they had. But would they really go this far to mess with the novice?

He was doubtful of that. It was completely ridiculous that they would do that. They were professionals.

But where had the blood come from?

Harry shuddered at that, desperate for a shower but completely unwilling to separate from Tom. He was the only thing keeping Harry from going mental.

“But would they really go this far? They’re my colleagues.” Harry sighed when Tom’s magic rubbed circles into his back, the touch kneading at the tense muscle.

“That is true. Could it be that dark wizard that murdered your parents? Your father was an Auror.” Harry tensed, his panic shifting to a more manageable emotion.

Anger. Anger so intense that it shocked Harry how quickly it overcame him.

That was more plausible. Harry was the last living Potter. The wizard that had murdered his parents had never been caught and there was still reason to believe that the man would seek Harry out considering how strongly he advocated for the incarceration of dark wizards.

He believed just as strongly as his father in the power of Light and the acceptance of Muggleborns in their society. It was enough to make him a target, already made one when his parents were robbed from him at seventeen. There was also the fact that he still lived in his parents’ old home, and although he had set some rather strong wards on the property, there was still the possibility that something had slipped through Harry’s defenses.

He wasn’t infallible, and the homicides had definitely been taking a toll in Harry’s own mental shields.

“If this is the work of a dark wizard, then he must be an incredibly powerful one to get through my wards.” Harry was no longer trembling, the fear that had overshadowed his thoughts earlier no longer clouding his judgment.

If this was the work of a dark wizard, then Harry had not done anything himself. The blood had to have been spelled on him―meant to exploit his weakness for such atrocities. The person that had done it had done it to get to Harry, to shake his foundations and his trust in himself.

He didn’t need Tom’s reassurances to know just how powerful this form of manipulation was.

The person that had done this _knew_ Harry well. He had probably been watching Harry for months, listening in on conversations Harry had with his coworkers, and possibly, was even a wizard he worked intimately with.

This was someone Harry had met before. This attack was too precise to imply otherwise.

“No one will _touch_ you so long as I am here, Harry.” Tom promised him, his words enough to draw a sharp intake of breath from Harry. Harry did not doubt that Tom would do everything in his power to protect him.

 “I appreciate the sentiment, Tom. But I’m quite the formidable opponent, too.” Harry sniffed before stepping away from the mirror, relieved that he hadn’t gotten blood on Tom.

It was a reminder that he still had a layer of it on his skin.

“I’ll be right back.” Harry rushed through his words, the desire to rub his skin raw until he no longer felt the tackiness of dried blood on his flesh compelling him to move.

“Of course. I won’t be going anywhere.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some Ginny/Harry here. This is the calm before the storm.

After that one instance, Harry did not wake up drenched in blood. He still had nightmares that he could not remember, but he couldn’t afford to be picky.

The homicides had been few and far between, making work slightly more pleasant now. He preferred the days that he was not off trying to piece together the bodies of victims, or ensure that nosy citizens did not stumble upon evidence and tamper it.

These days, Harry spent the majority of his time chasing after potential dark artifact dealers. It was a much easier task and gave Harry something more pleasant to think about than the mutilated corpses of a long string of male victims.

The department had tried to pinpoint the significance of why the victims were all men―not one female caught in the crossfire with the dark wizard, but they had yet to find an acceptable enough answer. They knew the murderer had to be keeping trophies, the missing body parts enough of a basis for that explanation. But there was still the matter of why the murderer felt the need to brutalize the men when they were still alive.

It was disgusting, completely inhumane and cruel. The wizard had to be a complete psychopath with little regard for the pain of others. Hell, the man had to feel more than no regard for human life, if Harry were being honest, he had to be a complete sadist to commit this level of cruelty without feeling any semblance of remorse.

It made Harry sick to think that this was a person still out in the world, possibly a neighbor, or even a coworker. This man could be anyone.

Harry shuddered at the thought.

_Let_ _’_ _s not scare yourself so early in the evening. You have a_ _―_

Harry yelped when his doorbell rang, his cheeks coloring in embarrassment when he heard Tom laugh at him from the room next door.

_Arse._

Harry rose from where he had been sitting, heading for the door and opening it to reveal the smiling face of Ginny. His breath caught at the flush to her cheeks, tempted to run his fingers across the seamless skin to collect the warmth there.

She was radiant underneath the setting sun, and Harry was struck for a moment that he had never noticed just how beautiful she was before. She may have been soft where Tom was all hard angles, delicate where Tom was firm, but she glowed in her own unique way.

She was solid and someone Harry could smooth his fingers against her skin. Harry could not do that with Tom, no matter how much he secretly wished he could.

“Are you planning to let me in anytime soon? It’s cold as hell out here.” Ginny teased and Harry flushed before quickly stepping away to let her into the house.

_Smooth, Harry._

“I hope you have something delicious prepared because practice has left me starving.” Harry grinned amusedly at Ginny’s words before heading straight to the kitchen where he had dinner. He had put a stasis charm on both of their meals, having made it much earlier in the afternoon as he updated Tom on his latest bust.

Tom had been oddly reticent the entire time, but Harry did not mind his silence. He was excited about his progress with the dark artifact ring he had been investigating, having acquired a warrant from one of the stingiest of judges in the Wizengamot. That was a win in Harry’s book and it hardly mattered that Tom did not feel the same level of enthusiasm for this kind of work.

Tom was far more interested in the homicides and chasing down dark wizards still remaining from Grindelwald’s reign.

“Careful now, I know this isn’t exactly the food faire you’re used to. But my humble cooking will just have to do.” Harry laughed when Ginny rolled her eyes at him, taking a seat at the table nearest to the kitchen.

Harry broke the stasis charm on the meal, appreciating the smell of perfectly grilled chicken with roasted veggies as he placed the first plate for Ginny. She ate often with him, but that did not mean that he didn’t have any manners whatsoever.

He placed his own plate on the table, glad that he had the foresight to set up the table before she had arrived. He was just as hungry as she was, if not more, from a day of arguing and haggling with the judge about the warrant.

Neither of them waited before digging in, pausing only to pour some more tea into their cup from the pot he had placed at the center of the table. It was comfortable, warm even―the combination of Ginny’s pink cheeks and dancing brown eyes enough to pull a smile from Harry’s own lips.

Harry could also feel Tom’s magic buzzing in the back of his mind, the feeling of it adding to the warm content suffusing through his limbs.

“So tell me, how was work today?” Ginny began, swallowing the last bite of her meal. Harry had not even finished his yet, still a little under halfway with his chicken. It was almost terrifying just how fast the woman could eat.

Harry chewed in thought, before swallowing.

“Pretty exciting, we finally got the judge to sign our warrant to bust the Nott family for their loot.” Harry grinned at the stunned look in Ginny’s face, noting the way her skin crinkled at the corner of her eyes.

“Merlin’s pants, Harry! That is amazing. When are you planning to get in there?” Harry laughed at the excitement in her tone, admiring the way her flawless skin looked. It was milky despite the long periods she spent practicing with her team.

Harry had been burnt toast in his days playing Quidditch, his olive skin more amenable to the desires of the Scottish sun. It still shocked him that Ginny managed to survive any sort of sun without burns, but, that was what magic was for. In the muggle world, Ginny would likely always be riddled with a variety of different sunburns.

Magic was truly a blessing.

“First thing tomorrow morning. We didn’t get him to agree to sign it off for the evening, but day time hours is more than enough. Hopefully no one in the Ministry has notified the Notts.” Harry explained, taking a sip of his tea before returning again to his dinner.

He wasn’t really hungry any more, but he didn’t want to seem like he was starving himself in front of Ginny.

Ginny may have been his confidant when Tom was absent, but that did not mean that Ginny would not tell Ron or Hermione that he was not eating. Hell, she might even tell Sirius and that would _definitely_ be bad.

The last time Sirius had caught wind that Harry had not been doing well, the man had parked his arse in Harry’s home until Harry could do nothing but comply. He didn’t need that level of nosiness in his life, not when he was possibly the target of a dark wizard and had a sentient mirror in his living room.

That would be a total catastrophe.

Harry finished most of his meal in silence, Ginny simply sipping at her tea. It normally would have made him uncomfortable to be the only one eating, but this was a common thing with her. Harry would never quite beat her at finishing his meal. It would be pointless to feel awkward about it.

So he simply ignored the emotion until he no longer felt it in Ginny’s presence.

Harry rose from the table then, gathering his plate and utensils.

“Leave the plate and the utensils at the table. I’ll get to those later.” Harry started, but huffed out a laugh when Ginny had followed closely behind him with her own dirty dishes in tow.

So much for being a gentleman.

“Too late.” She laughed at him, the sound enough to brighten the entire room.

“You just can’t give me this little moment.” Harry sighed mockingly, dropping the dishes into the sink, before placing a hand to his heart.

“Absolutely not, just who do you think you are, Harry James Potter?” She dropped hers into the sink, slipping in front of him before he had the chance to get started on the washing.

They were pressed so closely that Harry could feel her warmth through the layer of his clothes.

“H-hey, I was going to―!” Harry began to protest, but she suddenly turned around in the tight space. The sudden closeness of their faces was enough to rob Harry of his words, unsure and entirely too nervous for what this might mean.

Was she going to―?

And then she pressed her lips softly against his own, the press so slight that if Harry did not have his eyes open, he would not have thought they were kissing at all.

It was sweet, spreading a warmth from where the small point of contact. Harry felt like he was drowning in it. But just as he was about to push her into the sink, press his lips more firmly to get a deeper taste of her, she pulled away and turned to the dishes.

Harry was completely at a loss for words.

 _Damn_.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Explicit description of torture.
> 
> You have been warned.

_Harry_ _’_ _s nostrils flared from the heavy scent of iron, but he didn_ _’_ _t gag. It felt familiar, like welcoming an old friend that had spent months overseas._

_It was nostalgic, and it was pleased him greatly to be reunited with the coppery tang once again. He was drinking it into his lungs, allowing the metal to infuse itself with each network of capillaries and arteries in his lungs. To a normal man, this smell should have coaxed fear and disgust, it should have made him question his own morality for indulging in the metallic smell he could practically taste in his tongue. But there was no morality to be found here, no remorse or worry at what it was he was going to do._

_All he could feel was suffocating glee._

_He watched the way the man writhed beneath his wand, his pupils blown so wide with fear that it was almost pathetic that he managed to live past adolescence._

_But he would have to do._

_He had beautiful hands. The kind of hands he remembered he used to have back when he wove his spells with expert precision and poise. He recalled the width of them, the precise length of each fingernail as he scratched his own head after a frustrating afternoon of classes._

_He remembered it all, and it was why this man had to die. He didn_ _’_ _t deserve to have those hands_ _―_ _not when he consistently failed to defend himself despite having the means to. He was weak, and if there was anything he despised most in this world, it was weakness._

_He circled around the useless wizard, eyeing with a pleased glint in his eyes as the man continued to silently scream. He had silenced him before he had begun torturing him, disappointed that he could not revel in the sounds of his vocal chords straining. But he could not afford to be careless, this setting was not the place for such indulgence._

_There would be another time and a place, but for now, he would simply commit to memory the way the man_ _’_ _s arteries protruded from his neck, how his limbs trembled and shook with each wave of magic he pushed through his body. There was something about the Cruciatus curse that stoked the flames of his sadism._

_It was the perfect way to begin the evening._

_“_ _Does it hurt?_ _”_ _He mocked, grinning broadly when the man did not cease his squirming. He watched the way his lips parted as he screamed, and Harry quickly cast a cutting curse into his mouth, relishing at the sight of the man_ _’_ _s tongue severing from his mouth._

_His mouth was painted red, a brilliant shade that really made the blue in the man_ _’_ _s eyes jump out._

_Perhaps he should take his eyes instead?_

_He debated it, considering this before ending his spell._

_He didn_ _’_ _t want the man to lose his mind before he finished. He wanted the man to be aware of what he had planned_ _―_ _a receptacle for a rage he had no other means to exercise safely._

_He had allowed himself to trust. He had never bothered with such a useless emotion before. And the single time he indulged in such a thing, he was repaid for his generosity with disloyalty. It was humiliating and although he desired to punish the source of his anger, he knew that to do so would be folly._

_It would bring more harm to his own interests than good, so he would stay his hand._

_But that did not apply to others._

_Harry allowed noxious anger to overcome him, his face scrunching into a snarl before he sent another cutting curse at the bloody fool. He severed his hands cleanly, far along enough that the nerves would not be too damaged for him to connect with the rest of the parts he had collected the past few weeks._

_He quickly cast a stasis charm on the limbs, mindful that he needed to get the hands attached to his new body before the 24 hour period was over. Magic was incredible, but not even he could push beyond those limitations._

_At least, not in the limited state he was in._

_He placed the hands in the bag he specifically reserved for his collection, careful in the way he handled it._

_Once he ensured that his prize had been properly stored, he turned his attention back to the man. Harry_ _’_ _s lip twisted into a sneer at the sight of the man sobbing silently, sorely tempted to kill him for the pathetic show in front of him. But he refrained, knowing well that this would be the last kill for a few days._

_If he killed him now, he would have to take another sooner than he_ _’_ _d like. He_ _’_ _d rather not bother sullying this body without purpose, even if the boy deserved this._

_“_ _Now, what to do with you?_ _”_ _Harry mused, circling around the sobbing man once more._

_“_ _Should I set you on fire just to watch you burn?_ _”_ _Harry laughed when the man_ _’_ _s eyes widened at that, his voice moving noiselessly. The man was probably trying to beg, the thought of that eliciting a laugh from Harry._

_“_ _Or perhaps, I should simply cast the entrail-expelling curse and see how long it_ _’_ _d be before you died?_ _”_ _Harry pressed his finger to his chin, pretending to seriously consider ways to torture the man. He already knew how he planned to kill him, but watching the man squirm was just as entertaining as watching him die._

_If he had time, he would_ _’_ _ve drawn the affair for longer. But he was limited and did not want the boy to suspect something was amiss._

_“_ _Any last words?_ _”_ _Harry asked then, eyeing the way the man blubbered._

_“_ _None? That_ _’_ _s a shame._ _”_ _Harry sighed, a cruel glint to his green eyes before he cast the entrail-expelling curse._

_Harry watched with rapt attention as each individual organ was removed, having modified the spell to slowly unravel each individual intestine from the confines of the man_ _’_ _s gut.  He watched the man_ _’_ _s eyes roll to the back of his head, passing out almost immediately._

_“_ _Rennervate._ _”_ _He spoke the incantation almost lazily, watching the man blink back into awareness. The look of confusion in his eyes morphing into horror quite the entertaining view for Harry._

_“_ _Now now, I am not quite done with you._ _”_

Harry barely made it to the toilet, before he threw up everything he had eaten the previous night with Ginny. It hardly mattered that he had finally kissed her, that she tasted faintly of hot chocolate and sunlight.

All he could think about was how familiar that face was. It was an itch in the back of his mind, the disgust and the horror at the fact that it had been _him_ committing these atrocities enough to elicit another wave of dry heaving.

He had seen that man before, there was no mistaking the familiar brown curls on his head or the icy blueness of his eyes.

But where had he seen him?

Harry tried to piece together the sudden nightmare in his mind, ignoring the glee and the pleasure rushing through his veins at the sight of a man begging silently for his life. He didn’t want to dwell too much on the smell of blood, of the musky stench of urine when the man had pissed himself during the interaction―he didn’t want to think of the way the man’s eyes crinkled with agony and fear.

A fear that Harry could not help feeling himself as he pressed his face harder into the toilet.

And when the realization came, when the identity of the man clicked, Harry was not sure if he felt better or worse at having uncovered this mystery.

The man had been one of the earlier victims he had found on the job. Harry remembered this particular man well, not because of the crime scene had been particularly gruesome because they _all_ were, but because this was the only victim that had not been completely mutilated.

Harry could see the look of horror clearly on the man’s face, unabashedly exposed for the world to see. The murderer had not felt the need to disfigure him in such a way that he was ultimately unrecognizable.

That was also the crime scene Harry had puked at, the smell of shit and piss too much for him to bear so early on in his career. The man had been left out for hours, also unlike the other murders. The monster for some odd reason always placed the victims under stasis charms after they died, so the fact that this one had been an exception to his usual, was puzzling.

At first, the Auror department, including Harry, had suspected that the man had been special. A person with some sort of connection to the murderer.

But after months, and several dead bodies, they ceased that line of thought. Choosing instead to expend their energy in areas that they felt would be more lucrative to unmasking this killer.

It didn’t explain why Harry saw this man in his dream, however.

There was no rhyme or reason for why it had to be _Harry_ killing the man rather than him standing as the helpless third-party watching the scene unfold.

He was no murderer.

But that did not stop guilt from churning in his stomach, initiating another bought of dry heaving.

Harry hoped that was the last of his nightmares.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end, my friends. 
> 
> Warning: Graphic depiction of violence, and torture. And I do mean graphic.

_“_ _Comfortable? I did not think so._ _”_ _Harry mused as he eyed the man with growing amusement. The man had put up quite the struggle, his larger body more difficult to pin down. He had suspected what Harry had intended from the very beginning, and although that had been amusing at first, the man had dared to touch him._

_That would not do._

_He had the man tightly strapped to the chair, his arms folded over each armrest and his legs pinned to the legs of the chair. He had not bothered to gag the man, confident in the various privacy wards he had placed in the room for this particular kill._

_“_ _Go to bloody hell!_ _”_ _The thin man shouted, his face purple from when Harry had had to beat him down. It was convenient that what he planned to take was nowhere near his face_ _―_ _it would have been quite the waste of resources to have brought the man here and not take anything at all. He was nearing the completion of his project, and he definitely looked forward to it._

_After researching extensively while his ward slept, he had finally uncovered a sure fire way to regaining his power. He no longer had to conduct his duties in the dark, biding his time for the perfect moment to take what was rightfully his. It had been his mistake to tamper with the old magic in the Diadem_ _—_ _but how was he supposed to know that the trinket would react so violently to his own magic after the Grey Lady told him where it was?_

_It would have been impressive had the reaction not trapped him in the mirror, ensconcing him in a place that Tom had considered_ his.

_It was fortunate he already had made his horcruxes, but what good was that all if he could do nothing but wait in the chaos surrounding him? Watching as new trinkets fell in and were eaten away by time._

_No, he refused to allow it._

_“_ _Where are your manners, sir? It really is quite appalling that you dare to speak in such a way to an officer._ _”_ _Harry drawled, his dark amusement obvious as he slowly approached where the man had been sitting. The man struggled in his bindings, his eyes glittering with anger and_ _―_ _to Harry_ _’_ _s great delight_ _―_ _fear._

Delicious.

_“_ _See, I planned to remove something essential from you, and then play with you before I snuffed out your pathetic life._ _”_ _Harry stopped in front of the man, scrunching his nose when the man spat at him, the liquid missing him entirely._

_Harry extracted his wand from his pocket, flicking it in the air dramatically, before pressing it to the man_ _’_ _s throat. He smiled when the man swallowed, the sound loud enough for both of them to hear in the room._

_“_ _But now_ _―“_ _Harry breathed, dragging the wand gently across the man_ _’_ _s throat as he relished in the look of horrified realization in the man_ _’_ _s gaze._ _“_ _Now_ _―_ _I will make sure that instead of listening to you beg for me to spare your pathetic life, I will make sure that all I will hear in the privacy of this room is you begging for me to kill you._ _”_

_Harry said almost sweetly, a saccharine smile on his lips as he watched the man urinate all over himself._

Disgusting.

_“_ _Crucio._ _”_

_And then the man was screaming, the sound of it like the sweetest of symphonies to Harry_ _’_ _s ears. He could pinpoint each individual pitch of his voice when he twisted his wand just_ so. _It was marvelous really, he could make a singer out of anyone._

_A preacher out of a non-believer._

_He thought almost amusedly back to all the instances of how self-professed atheists easily crumbled at the end of his wand, begging for a God that would never hear their prayers._

_It was quite amusing to tell them that he was the only god here._

_He controlled when they lived and spared them if they made themselves useful to him in the end._

_He controlled when they died, the duration for his determination, the method of death at his discretion._

_He heard their prayers and only he determined if their words merited any consideration at all._

_The man struggled underneath the cruelty of his gaze, taking in with pleasure the instant the man had bitten his tongue so hard that he could see blood trickle down his chin. He twisted his wrist once more, and he watched almost greedily how the man dug his fingernails into the wood beneath his fingers, uncaring that he had torn a few of them straight from the bed in his desperate movements._

_Then he lifted the curse, the man_ _’_ _s screaming dying to tiny whimpers._

_“_ _Now then, let me remove what I need first. It would be such a pity if I damaged what I need._ _”_ _Harry pointed the wand between the man_ _’_ _s legs, chuckling when the man_ _’_ _s face contorted into one of deeper panic._

_Harry cast the cutting spell, and he closed his eyes in bliss at the sound of the man_ _’_ _s pained cries._

_At first, he had not planned to take male reproductive organs. The idea of it displeasing and not at all useful for his plans. But then, the sight of the boy every morning after his shower had aroused something in him that he had never experienced before._

_It was carnal, a hunger that embedded their sharp incisors deep into the meat of his soul. He had never wanted a person so much, accustomed to stealing precious objects instead. This was definitely a first._

_And now, here he was, cutting away at this man_ _’_ _s flesh just so he could_ _―_

_“_ _N-no more!_ _”_ _The man sobbed, cutting through the direction Harry_ _’_ _s mind had gone._

_It would not do to get distracted in such a crucial moment. It could ruin the meat_ _―_ _he could always replace it, but what a waste. He_ _’_ _d rather not wait much longer to acquire this._

_“_ _I am almost tempted to spare you some pain._ _”_ _Harry murmured before terminating the spell, not minding the fact that when he had severed the man_ _’_ _s cock and balls from his body, the act had splattered his trousers with blood._

_Perhaps a parting gift for the boy?_

_Harry chuckled, quickly casting the organ in a stasis charm and stowing it in his bag._

_He turned his attention back to the man, and tsked at the glazed look in the man_ _’_ _s eyes._

_That was no fun._

_He pointed his wand at the man_ _’_ _s left arm, noting with displeasure that the man had not even flinched._

_“_ _Confringo._ _”_ _The spell fell easily from his lips, and he grinned when the man suddenly screamed, the sound so high-pitched and loud that it echoed in the small room. His arm exploded into small chunks of flesh and bone, blood splattering onto Harry_ _’_ _s shirt and face from the force of his magic._

_“_ Much _better._ _”_ _He hummed before pointing the wand at the victim_ _’_ _s left leg, mulling over whether to rip it completely off his body to then mend it right back up. The thought of healing the man was not thrilling, but if he planned to keep him alive long enough to savor his suffering, well, he_ _’_ _d have to make a simple exception for this attenuating circumstance._

_“_ _Confringo._ _”_ _He repeated the spell, delighted when blood splattered into his hair, chest, and legs. He was so thick with it that if he desired, he could even lick the substance up into his mouth. But he repressed the urge to give in to his bloodlust. The man_ _’_ _s screams made his skin itch with satisfaction, noting the precise instance his vocal chords had suffered too much. He sounded more a frog than a man._

_How amusing._

_“_ _Vulnera Sanentur._ _”_ _He mended the leg back up, laughing outright when it was a mere stump. It looked as repulsive as the simpering man before him was._

_It was rather fitting._

_“_ _S-stop, just kill me please._ _”_ _The man was crying once more, blubbering a string of nonsensical words when he saw Harry press his wand to his other leg. The look in Harry_ _’_ _s eyes was malevolent, but his smile sweet._

_He could see his own face reflected in the wide eyes of the man before him. The sight of Harry entirely drenched in blood made him look demonic_ _―_ _his green eyes nearly incandescent underneath the glow of the candles in the room. Harry moaned at the sight, enthralled by the image of himself lost to the bloodlust._

_“_ _No, not yet._ _”_ _Harry_ _’_ _s lips twisted into a wide grin, before casting another dark spell_ _―_

Harry bolted up, the nausea in his gut an all too familiar emotion.

He wanted to rush to the toilet and immediately throw up a week’s worth of what he’d eaten. He wanted to scrub his flesh until his skin was red and aching. He wanted to purge the image of exploding flesh from his mind―to erase the reflection of his own face in the glassiness of the man’s eyes.

Those clothes were the clothes he’d been he’d been wearing when he had gone to bed months before―the same blood soaked shirt, the same matted feeling in his hair, and stickiness in his hands.

_Please no_ _―_

It had to be a dream, but that was the face he had seen when he had caught himself in the mirror months prior _._

It was the same blood splatter on his cheek, the same glow in his bright green eyes.

 _Tom lied to me_.

It was the first thought he had between the panic mounting with each second. It was the only source of stability he had, the world completely tilted on his axis because _Tom had fucking lied to him._

The man had promised him that he had not left the house. That there was no way that he could have just walked out the front door without the man at least inquiring.

Harry started hyperventilating, and he tried to take deep breaths to prevent the panic attack he was surely about to have.

_Ohgodohgogohgod._

**_I am the only god here._ **

Harry flinched at the memory of his own voice thinking those words, stumbling out of his bed and into the living room.

He could sense Tom’s magic in the air, the familiarity in it enough to make Harry want to throw up as he moved. His limbs felt entirely sluggish, almost as if he had not been moving long in them at all. It felt foreign, entirely strange.

He didn’t know what to make of that.

Fuck, he didn’t know what to make of anything.

“Tom!” Harry roared, maintaining at least a foot of space between himself and the mirror.

Harry ignored the way Tom’s magic slithered against his skin, almost as if trying to soothe him. And then there was the familiar ripple of Tom’s magic materializing Tom’s face in the mirror.

He looked confused, but there was a guarded look to his eyes.

“You lied to me, you bastard!” Harry wanted to punch him. It would be immensely satisfying to hear the familiar slap of flesh hitting flesh, of his hand hitting something solid.

**_Of flesh exploding into chunks of meat._ **

Harry paled at the image of the atrocity he had committed, his anger momentarily leaving him to stifle the urge to vomit that overcame him once more.

“I did not lie to you, Harry.” The calm way Tom said it only served to incense Harry further, managing to quell his nausea to glare spitefully at the person he thought he could trust.

Who he had trusted with his life.

“Yes you did! I m-murdered someone, Tom.” Harry hated himself for tripping over the word. It made him sound weak and afraid, young even. He hated the feeling so much.

“No you did not, Harry. I never saw you leave this room.” Tom insisted, the desperation in his tone enough to throw Harry completely off. “You asked me if I saw or heard you leave this room, I did not. I swear on my magic that I did not.”

Harry felt his shoulders crumple in defeat, confusion evident on his face as Tom watched him.

“Why would I lie to you, Harry?” Tom’s tone was curious, but his eyes held an iciness to them that cut him to the bone.

 _His eyes kind of looked like_ ―

“What would I gain in lying to you, Harry? Everything I have done is for you.” Harry did not dare respond, horror seizing his limbs as he watched the way Tom’s face twisted into a sardonic smile.

_His lips kind of looked like_ _―_

“I promised you that I would never allow anyone to touch you, Harry. _No one_ may touch you.” Tom snarled, and Harry did not even think to pull away when Tom’s magic seized him. The mirror’s grip was so tight that he would surely have bruises, the magic feeling more like human hands than tendrils at that precise moment.

_His voice kind of sounded like_ _―_

“N-no!” Harry gasped, his body seeming to come to life. He struggled underneath the mirror’s tight grip, the sensation of Tom’s magic no longer welcome. He wanted to scream in a fit of rage, to cry because Tom was―

Tom had―

_Who was he?_

“Yes, Harry. I had finally uncovered the secret to freeing myself from the mirror. A price your Gryffindor heart never would have paid.” Harry could hardly believe his ears.

“All this time you’d only been biding your time? I _trusted_ you. I-I” Harry did not want to admit the words that were creeping steadily from his lungs like the wailing of wind during a storm. He stowed the words tightly into his chest, burying the emotion as deeply as he could because he could not―

“I never planned for you to discover the truth, but you forced my hand.” Tom’s voice was hollow, but his eyes were alive with something dark. It was a hunger that Harry could not explain away, it was the same look to his own eyes when he had butchered the two men.

Likely the same look Harry had had when he had butchered all those men.

_He_ _’_ _d been using me to kill them._

The thought was acidic―a noxious thing that rotted everything in its path.

“I never thought that I would ever be made a fool by a Gryffindor boy. But I suppose, there is a first for everything.” Tom mused and Harry shuddered when Tom’s magic pressed lightly to his cheek, an affectionate gesture.

“ _She_ touched you. What are we to do about that?” Harry stared confusedly at Tom for a second before an all-consuming panic overtook him.

_Ginny._

“Don’t!” Harry shouted, jerking and kicking out in hopes that he’d at least shatter the glass. But Tom had been way ahead of him, shielding himself with a wall of his own magic. Nothing that Harry did even fazed the wall of magic Tom had erected.

Harry was growing desperate, the horror of what Tom had planned too much for him.

“Why don’t we invite her over for breakfast, Harry? I am sure she would be delighted.” Tom suggested, his lips twisting into a saccharine smile. The sight of it made Harry want to spit in his face, to turn tail and get the fuck out of dodge with Ginny in tow.

_To think, I thought I loved_ _―_

“Go on, Harry. We don’t want her to grow hungry now. She certainly has quite the voracious appetite.” Harry swallowed at the cruel note to Tom’s words, the glittering in his eyes doing nothing to calm Harry’s mounting panic.

_Please let this be a dream. This cannot be real._

“Over my dead bo―“ Harry began, but Tom had cut him off.

“It is always the hard way with you noble-hearted types.” Tom sighed, seemingly disappointed in Harry’s choice. “But no matter, I do not _need_ you to do it.”

When Tom smiled pleasantly at Harry’s dumbfounded expression, Harry felt like he might faint. He cycled through so many bloody emotions that he was not sure what it was that he was supposed to feel; betrayal, anger, and disappointment all smashing together to form some strange hybrid of feeling.

Nothing could have prepared him for the feeling of Tom’s magic forcing its way down Harry’s throat.

He felt helpless tears gather at the corners of his eyes, gagging at the sensation of Tom’s magic slowly filling him up. He wanted to bite down, but it made no difference when he locked his teeth. The magic slithered through the tiny gaps between his teeth, defying Harry’s will entirely.

It felt like an eternity before all of Tom’s magic finally slithered completely inside Harry, like Harry’s flesh was just a person-suit waiting to be worn by the man. He shuddered at the feeling of the intense heat within him, feeling parts of him warm in ways that he did not even want to think of.

_Why am I_ _―_

And then Harry’s body was no longer his to control. He could see himself move, his nerve endings very much his own despite the darkness currently dancing within his insides.

“Ah, much better.” Harry heard himself speak aloud, but he had not consciously said the words. It was strange, almost as if Harry had completely dissociated from himself.

He was an entirely new person, and yet he was not. Harry was still very much aware of his senses despite Tom possessing him so completely. He was still _himself,_ and yet he wasn’t.

He felt a migraine coming on trying to fathom just what was happening.

“I had planned to be inside you, but admittedly not quite in this fashion.” Harry wished he had not heard Tom speak at all, it was both entirely too bizarre that he was hearing himself speak. He did not need Tom to add his inappropriate comments to the fray as well.

“Now then, let’s invite sweet and innocent Ginny over.” Harry willed his body to still, to remain exactly where he stood in front of the mirror in the living room area, but his body did not heed his commands. Tom walked them to the hearth on the other side of the room.

Tom lit the fire, and Harry screamed for Tom to stop. To reconsider just what it was that Tom planned to do.

But Tom ignored his pleas, simply tossing some of the floo powder Harry kept at the side of the hearth. He called immediately for Ginny Weasley’s apartment before sticking Harry’s head into the flame.

Ginny was sitting comfortably on the couch, facing the hearth, she had yet to notice that they had called on her. Harry tried to regain some sort of control of himself once more, but his will was completely overwhelmed by the power of Tom’s magic.

It was like watching the entire scene unfold in the third person. A helpless bystander forced to watch a killer slowly pick apart at his victim―inch by terrible inch.

“Ginny?” Tom called, his voice the perfect amount of hesitation. They watched Ginny jump for a moment before turning wide eyes to them, her cheeks flushed a bright crimson. “I-I’m sorry to call on you so early in the morning, but I was hoping you’d be interested in joining me for breakfast this morning. I might have made too many pancakes…” Tom said sheepishly, a small smile on his lips.

If Harry wasn’t completely terrified, he might have been impressed with Tom’s acting.

Ginny seemed to consider him for a moment, before a slow grin lit up her face.

Harry was absolutely horrified, but Tom seemed to purr rather contently in his mind at that.

“Absolutely! I’ll be there shortly, let me just change.” She sprang to her feet then, and Tom smiled happily at her before removing Harry’s head from the hearth and closing the floo call.

“And now, we wait.” Tom stated cheerily, rising steadily from where he’d been crouching in front of the fire.

Harry was numb with fear.

Tom walked them to the kitchen, his movements far more foreign and graceful than Harry had ever managed to accomplish. He walked like a predator, each individual motion conducted with such care that it was practically art to see Tom move Harry’s body like a marionette.

He opened the fridge, before pulling out different ingredients to prepare the mockery of a meal for their breakfast. Harry did not feel particularly hungry, but he could sense Tom’s own gluttonous hunger in his mind. The sensation made him nauseous―made his insides curdle with fear and disgust when Tom placed all of the ingredients on the counter and began whisking all them together in a plastic bowel Harry had left the previous evening.

He could smell the familiar scent of flour and buttermilk beneath his nose, the cloying scent serving to make his horror more clearly in his mind.

How domestic this all was. To prepare breakfast in the morning with Tom, except now. This was the precursor before Tom made him watch himself murder an innocent.

Ginny’s only sin was to love Harry―to press her hands into his own and give him a taste of sunlight. Her only sin was to have radiant skin that flushed prettily for Harry, to have a body of her own that Harry could actually touch.

But Harry had many. He would gladly lay down his life to save Ginny’s―suffer through the torture and the press of his own wand against himself. It would only be fair, he was the reason that Tom planned to kill her in the first place.

He was the reason Tom was no longer trapped in Hogwarts where he should have left him to rot. He was the reason Tom murdered those men, reveled in their cries and pleas for a mercy Tom never provided. Harry had set it all in motion, and he sobbed helplessly in his own mind as he watched Tom cook bloody pancakes and sausages in the morning.

“You are the one to blame, Harry.” Harry heard himself speak, the sound breaking through the panic and self-loathing drowning Harry’s senses. “I planned to simply kill you, you know. End you quickly and painlessly with a simple _Avada Kedavra._ It would only be fitting considering that was how your parents had died.”

Harry wished with all his strength that Tom would drop dead.

“Now now, that is not quite true. Your heart is soft, such a delicate thing that I could easily crush between my hands.” Tom continued, scooping up a pancake before placing it on a plate he had laid out in the time Harry was overwhelmed by his own thoughts. “You may think it, Harry. But you do not wish to kill me, I can sense something interesting buried in your mind. It’s quite bright, it almost makes me want to rip it out of you just too simply see what that light is.”

Harry tried not react to Tom’s threat, focusing instead on watching the way Tom moved instead through his body, of how easily he prepared the last meal Ginny would likely have. Harry may never look at pancakes and sausages again without seeing her face in the back of his mind.

“But you are correct about one thing―“Tom began after finally piling up the stack of pancakes on two plates, two individual sausages to the left of it. “―It is your fault entirely that she is going to die. Such a pity.”

Harry snarled at that, but Tom simply ignored him. He prepared the table for breakfast, his fingers moving so quickly that Harry could hardly keep up with his movements.

“Breakfast is prepared, and she will be here any moment. Any particular request for drinks, Harry? Wine? Tea? I am rather fond of wine, particular the red kind.” Harry internally flinched at that, recalling with great clarity the color of his hand soaked thickly with blood, the color of the man’s insides splaying out from inside his belly, the splatter of blood on his cheek that he was tempted to lick off―

Harry was almost glad he had no control of himself, he felt like he was going to be sick.

Gratefully, Tom only prepared tea and placed the pot beside the bottle of maple syrup he had deposited there when preparing the table.

There was the sound of a small explosion and Harry wanted to scream when there was a shuffling of footsteps. Ginny had just arrived.

_Oh Merlin please, Ginny run._

“Harry?” Ginny called out before entering the kitchen, her eyes widening at the splendor of food on the table. It was more than Harry could ever eat, and it was evident that Ginny was more than shocked at the sight of a tower of pancakes stacked on their plates.

“You definitely weren’t kidding. You’re lucky I play Quidditch for a living.” Ginny laughed, quickly taking a seat at the table.

“Y-yeah, didn’t realize I made so much until I had a mountain of pancakes on my hands. I’m glad you’re up for the challenge.” Tom teased, gesturing for her to take the bottle of syrup he had placed at the center of the table. “Good thing I know someone that could easily put her own brother’s appetite to shame.”

Ginny’s laugh was radiant, the skin of her cheeks a pleasant pink that made Harry’s chest constrict with something beyond horror. It was a thick feeling, infecting his mind in a manner that made Tom laugh in his own head.

It was rich and heady, a husky sound that did not fit with the malice exuding from Tom’s every thought.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Harry. You still have to eat too.” She pointed out before taking her first bite of the pancake. She moaned from the flavor of it, and Harry felt sick watching her quickly consume what he knew was her last meal.

Pancakes and sausages. It had been Harry’s favorite.

“Do you like it?” Tom asked before taking a bite of his own, a pleased grin on his lips when Ginny took a moment to swallow, before nodding her head vigorously.

She looked so young and innocent in that moment, the sunlight from the other room filtering inside casting a heavenly glow above her head.

“I am glad to hear that. Could you give me a moment? I need to get something from the other room.” Tom asked, an embarrassed flush to his cheeks as he said it. Harry hadn’t noticed he started screaming in his mind again until Tom quickly rose, the man’s voice whispering cooing sounds.

Tom was mocking him.

He entered Harry’s room, searching for something in the mess that Harry had made of his bed when he had scrambled up earlier in the morning. Harry jolted when he felt the familiar smoothness of his wand, the black of it clashing with the gray of his sheets.

Harry felt the precise moment Tom’s magic swelled with power, the churning in his stomach not just from his fear, but also from excitement. A foreign feeling that Harry tried to separate himself from lest he get lost in it.

Harry’s wand felt hot in his hand as he headed back to the kitchen. It was a heavy weight, a burden that Harry had never in his life anticipated experiencing.

When this was the wand he had been paired with, it was singlehandedly the happiest moment in Harry’s life. He felt warmed by the thrum of his own magic harmonizing with the holly, dancing in circles with the heat of the phoenix feather in its core. He had felt one with his wand.

But now, it was like they were strangers. A split in their connection that Harry mourned.

“Petrificus Totalus.” Tom whispered, watching with glee when Ginny froze mid-bite. The fork fell and clattered on the plate, the sound enough to echo throughout the entire house. Harry could only watch in horror from behind his own eyes, feeling the way his magic percolated in the room after casting.

It was like the sky after lightning, the air hanging heavy around them.

Tom moved around the table to take in the look of shock frozen on Ginny’s face, her hand stuck in the position it had been in before he had cursed her. Harry could note the confusion in her gaze, and all Harry wanted to do was to stop everything.

_Please don_ _’_ _t kill her!_

Harry shouted in his own mind, but Tom simply tsked at him, as if his words alone irritated him. Harry did not understand why the man was doing this. Why he had to be awake to see himself take her life.

“Ginevra Weasley. A member of the Holyhead Harpies. The youngest sister of Ronald Bilius Weasley. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Tom began, noting with glee how the confusion on Ginny’s face seemed to deepen at the introduction.

“My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am afraid Harry Potter is not here at the moment.” Something flashed in Ginny’s gaze then, and her eyes seemed to lose their confused glint. Harry was not sure if that relieved or terrified him.

“Harry has spoken highly about you. It seemed only fair that I meet you.” Tom smiled at her, the grin so wide that it Harry could feel the strain of it on his own cheeks. It was bizarre to see and feel himself smile, but be unable to do nothing more than suffer under the whims of a psychopath.

“I don’t know if Harry has told you, but he seems quite fond of your skin. If you could hear the thoughts he’d had about how radiant your cheeks look when ruddy with your embarrassment…it’s quite poetic.” Harry swallowed nervously in his mind when Tom moved closer to her, pressing his finger to smooth down her cheek.

Tom smile widened at the look of shock that filtered in her gaze.

“He was right. It truly is quite soft.” Tom murmured before removing his hand, wiping his hand against the fabric of his trousers as if to remove all traces of her from his skin. Ginny did not miss the gesture, but Harry could not tell just what it was that she felt at that second.

Tom’s magic flared at that precise second, and all Harry could really focus on was on the instant Harry’s arm pressed his wand to Ginny’s throat.

“It is really not your fault that you wanted a taste of something so pure. I find that I myself cannot resist Harry’s charms myself. But I gave him my word that I would allow no one to touch a hair on his head, and you, Ginevra, have bitten the forbidden fruit.”

Harry screamed when Tom simple levitated her from the table, the look of horror in her eyes so pervasive that Harry wished he had never seen it at all. Tom walked with Ginny in tow to where the hidden latch to Harry’s basement was. Tom waved it open, a strange smell escaping from it.

Tom slowly moved down the steps, ignoring Harry’s mounting horror as he caught sight of the various devices hanging on the walls of the tiny space.

This was where Tom had cut off the man’s―

All Harry could see was red as Tom moved to the center, a gambrel attached to the very top of the room. It looked more like a bar than anything, but Harry could see restraints at either end of it.

Was Tom planning to―

“This room is heavily warded, no one will be able to hear your screams. So please, feel free to shout to your heart’s content after I have strapped you up.” Tom stated offhandedly before bringing Ginny closer to the gambrel.

“But before that―“ Tom mused, pleased with how she looked in the darkness of the room.

“ _Stupefy._ _”_ And then she was out. Tom unfroze her from her position, keeping her levitated from the ground. Harry watched without saying anything at all, his words caught in his throat. He wanted to scream again, but he knew that Tom would simply not listen.

Tom flipped her upside down, strapping each ankle to the ends of the gambrel. She looked like a pig ready for slaughter, the image enough to draw another repulsed shudder from Harry as Tom then proceeded to strip her.

When he was finished, Tom had her firmly strapped by her ankles, her hands a good foot above the concrete floor and her hair grazing the ground. Harry wondered why Tom had not bothered to tie her hands, but he didn’t think to ask. He didn’t want to know.

Though he was going to find that out soon enough.

Tom pointed Harry’s wand at the girl, and revived her. She gasped almost instantly, her skin prickling with gooseflesh when she realized that she was completely naked. Harry could see the mortification on her face, the red of her cheeks bright against the paleness of her skin. But when she looked back to them, her eyes shuddered away all embarrassment and shock in her gaze. She looked angry, ready to explode with her rage.

Harry wished he wasn’t at the end of that look.

“What the _fuck_ ―“ But Tom threw a stinging hex at her, silencing her curse. There was something about the way that Tom held his wand that looked so dangerous then, even when he had only cast a virtually harmless spell.

“Language, Ginevra. That is most impolite.” Tom teased, removing Harry’s glasses from the bridge of his nose then. Tom could apparently see without them.

“What did you do to Harry?” Ginny shouted, uncaring of the fact that she should be more concerned for her own safety than for Harry’s own. It was she that was in danger, not him, he wanted to shout at to save herself―to bargain for her own life.

Harry was screaming once more when Tom closed the distance between them and Ginny, staring down at her face. He felt his face twist into a sneer, as if she were a bug not worth stepping on.

“I believe you should be more concerned for your own safety. Harry is no longer a concern of yours.” Harry felt himself bristle at Tom’s scathing retort, ignoring the suffocating pressure of Tom’s own rage bubbling inside his body. It was confusing, almost as if it was Harry himself that was angry. But he knew he wasn’t mad at Ginny, he was upset at Tom.

He wanted Tom to stop, to leave her alone.

“You won’t get away with this, _monster_. They’ll find you and when they do they’ll―“

“Oh?” Tom interrupted, stepping closer to the girl. Harry noted the way Ginny trembled, sick satisfaction welling in his gut at the miniscule movement drowning out his own fear for her. “And what is it that they’ll do Ginevra? Lock up your precious boy in Azkaban for murdering you?”

Ginny paled then, and Harry felt himself smile at her sweetly before stepping away from her. She was silent save for her own harsh breaths, and Harry twitched when Tom pocketed his wand and reached for a scalpel placed on the table.

How long had Tom been planning to do this?

The blade felt small in his hand, sterile. Harry had never held something like it before, more accustomed to the butter knives he used to spread jam or butter on his toast. There was something strange about the small blade, as if there was something entirely impersonal about what it was that Tom was about to do.

It contradicted the flurry of dark emotion in Harry’s mind, the glee and the rage mounting with each step Tom took before he stood in front of Ginny’s pale form.

“It upsets me that I have touch you for this, but this endeavor requires precision…one that I lack at this particular moment.” Tom gestured to Harry’s body, scrunching his nose when Harry tried to bargain with him again.

_Please just spare her. You don_ _’_ _t have to do this._

“No, Harry. I think I won’t. In the end, she will be getting her heart’s greatest desire.” Tom spoke aloud, to Ginny’s own confusion and Harry’s despair.

“Who are―“ Ginny began, but Tom stepped into her space and pressed the scalpel harshly to the exposed tendon of her left ankle. He cut into the flesh like butter, blood blooming along the seam of the cut before pulling the skin back.

Ginny screamed in the silence, her hands scratching and moving to try to claw her way into Harry’s leg. The motion made it difficult to cut further, and Tom sighed, frustration evident in the sound.

“Come now, Ginevra. If you continue to move, it will make this far more difficult than it needs to be.” But Ginny did not stop struggling despite the warning in his tone, and it came as no surprise to Harry when Tom suddenly crouched in front of her tear streaked face.

He seized her right arm, and with a ferocity Harry had not been expecting, broke the girl’s arm. Harry could feel the way her bone gave, the arm protruding in an angle that was impossible for the human body to do.

Ginny screamed from the sudden pain, her arm hanging uselessly as she tried to claw and punch at Tom with her other arm.

“You bloody _psychopath!_ ” Ginny shouted when Tom seized her other arm in his, holding it out before pushing and _pushing_ until he snapped that limb too. Another pained cry left her lips as she sobbed while shouting insults at Tom.

Harry wanted to block the sound from his ears, to ignore the excitement pooling in his belly at the desperate cries coming from Ginny. He knew it wasn’t his joy and his pleasure, he was merely a vessel that was forced to watch.

But Harry could not help the guilt he felt, the disgust for himself and the way his emotions were pulled along with the current Tom’s own emotions.

“Now then, be a good girl and scream. We may be here for quite some time.” Tom mused before rising from where Tom had crouched. He splayed his hands on her ankle, gentle despite the promise of pain looming in her horizon. He pressed his finger to where he had severed some of her skin from muscle, the touch curious and questing.

Harry’s insides roiled when Tom’s fingers suddenly pulled on the flap, eliciting another pained cry from Ginny before pressing the blade once more to the reddened flesh.

“You see, normally I would simply remove something that I desire first before I torture my helpless victims.” Tom laughed when Ginny’s leg shook as he continued to cut into the flesh, careful to sever only the fatty tissue. Tom needed her skin to come away clean―even and soft.

Just as Harry liked.

Harry watched as Ginny’s screams died down to whimpers as Tom continued to cut, slicing her flesh from the muscle with an ease that Harry wondered if Tom at some point had been a butcher. He could maneuver his way through the human body like a muggle surgeon, a care and meticulousness about him that left Harry with a strange taste in his mouth.

He was both disturbed and awed, watching as Tom made it around Ginny’s knee.

“But what I desire now is a thin membrane of flesh that I could ruin if I allow myself to grow too excited. I cannot let my bloodlust overcome my senses now that I can show Harry just _who_ I am.”

Tom grinned, and Harry shuddered at the feeling of his lips splitting in such a way.

Harry hoped Tom would grow bored or tired, but the thought was overridden by Tom’s amused feelings as hastened in his work, confident now that Ginny was not going to move much more. She had gone into shock at some point in the affair, her mind shutting down from the intense pain of her muscle’s being exposed to air.

Tom did not care to torture her as he had his other victims, more focused on the task itself than on the notion of making Ginny pay for daring to touch Harry. Harry was not sure if this relieved him of frightened him more, knowing that if Ginny managed to survive this, Tom would likely draw out her suffering.

The man was cruel and sadistic, Harry knew. He had seen it for himself in his dreams, could feel the pressure in his mind as he tried to distance himself from the man’s emotions.

“There is something almost therapeutic about skinning a person. I have never taken the time to do it by hand, the duration of it not quite pleasing. But see, Harry’s emotions have made more than bearable.” Tom continued as he snipped and sliced, until he had reached her inner thigh. She was trembling again, the pain seemingly more unbearable now that Tom had reached such sensitive skin.

“Do you want me to tell you what Harry is thinking?” Tom asked, genuinely curious to hear what she thought. Harry only listened.

Ginny did not respond to him, the glazed look in her eyes the only indication that her mind was no longer in the room. Tom clicked his tongue, but did nothing more despite the desire spreading in Harry’s brain to force a reaction from her. Tom wanted to snap her back to her senses, but Harry could feel the hesitation. A fine layer of restraint that kept him from tapping into his more savage cravings.

Tom wanted to hurt her for touching Harry, a poisonous emotion that Harry could not deny. But the man desired her skin, wanted something that Harry himself had been fond of. The mixture of emotions left Harry almost breathless, his mind being pulled into different directions. Harry tried to pinpoint what each individual emotion was and he was overridden by shock when Harry finally identified the acrid emotion.

_Jealousy._

Tom was…jealous of Ginny?

Harry felt himself swoon in Tom’s mind, failing to notice the way Tom’s lip curled into a snarl at the direction Harry’s thoughts had gone.

“She is _nothing_. She is lower than swine sullying themselves in their own shit.” Harry wanted to laugh at that, and he did, horrified and awed that such a powerful man could be so _childish_.

That he was skinning a girl alive simply because Harry had wanted her instead of him. For touching him when Tom himself could not.

The humor made him feel sick and twisted, like his sanity was slipping loose from his shoulders as readily as Tom was removing Ginny’s skin from her body.

 _Oh god he_ ―

Harry had not noticed when Tom had managed to finish cutting through both her legs, Ginny’s skin draping over her hips like an inverted dress.

Had Harry been so out of it that he missed such precious seconds?

_I won_ _’_ _t ever touch her again, I swear. I won_ _’_ _t ever see her. It_ _’_ _ll just be me and you, Tom._

Harry tried, but Tom did not even deign Harry’s words with an answer. Cutting through the white fat beneath her skin. He was moving much more quickly now, emboldened by Ginny’s lack of movement and the progress already made.

Harry didn’t know how long it had been since it had all begun. How long it had been since Tom had started to expose Ginny in a way that no one else ever had. Harry doubted he would ever have.

When Tom finally reached her neck, he stopped. He was crouching in front of her once more, but this time Ginny did not so much as flinch. She could have well been dead at that instance, lost to her own mind.

Tom slit her wrists then, cutting seams through to repeat the process he had already begun but up her arms.

Tom had not spoken a word since Harry had come to the conclusion that Tom was jealous of Ginny.

Harry did not feel relieved by the silence. He felt empty and repulsed, watching as Ginny continued to bleed out on the concrete floor. When Tom finally finished skinning her arms, the iron tang of blood heavy in Harry’s nostrils, Harry did not know what to expect.

He had never seen someone skin an animal before despite having a rug in the middle of the sitting room.

Tom slapped her then, the force of it enough to call her from the safety of her own mind. She blinked and cried when she recognized that she was _awake_ and who it was that was there with her. Her face looked drained of all color, pasty and clammy with her own sweat.

Harry could hear Tom hum pleasantly at the fact he had cut away her flesh before she could sully it with her own sweat. Harry felt revolted at the thought.

“I asked you a question earlier, though I don’t suppose you were in the right state of mind to hear it.” Tom pulled harshly at her hair, drawing a short whimper from her lips.

_This was madness._

“Do you want to know what Harry is thinking, Ginevra?” Tom asked, but Ginny refused to answer. Her lips were pressed into a harsh line, her eyes glittering with fear. But there was defiance there too, even if a small flame.

“He was bargaining for your life. Hoping that I would reconsider my course of action.” Tom laughed and Ginny glared at him spitefully, still refusing to play Tom’s game.

It made something like pride swell in Harry’s chest. She was strong, even under the face of terrible odds, she refused to sacrifice her dignity to the man that held her life.

She had not once begged him to stop, to kill her. She was nothing like the men Tom had killed before.

“He promised me that he would never touch you again, that he would never speak to you. That I could have him all to myself without fear of you ever coming into the picture. He definitely knows where to expose a weakness, my dear Ginevra.” Tom smiled and Ginny spat at him. Her saliva trickled down his cheek but his amusement did not wane.

Harry was frozen, dread drowning out all thought of Tom’s emotions.

“But I have a much better idea, you see. After all, I cannot fault you for wanting what is mine, he certainly encouraged your overtures.” Tom’s voice was kind, conflicting with the hatred Harry could feel from Tom’s thoughts.

“I will grant you your greatest desire. Your skin will touch his, his warmth become your own.” Tom whispered, ignoring the horror that overtook her when she realized what Tom intended. Harry wanted to close his eyes and block out his ears.

“It is unfortunate that your mind will not be present to appreciate my generosity.” Tom mused before removing Harry’s wand from his pocket. The weight of it was sickening to Harry, like a shackle had been strapped to his wrist as Tom turned the wand on Ginny’s blue-tinged lips.

She was staring into their eyes, a silent resignation in them. Harry screamed for Tom to stop then, knowing what was coming. Sensing what it was that Tom planned to do.

“ _Avada Kedavra._ _”_

And then the light faded from her eyes, her body going completely lax in the quiet room.

Harry was screaming so loud that he was shocked Tom had not tried to silence him. Simply severing Ginny’s head from her shoulders to separate the rest of Ginny’s flesh from her body.

“Shhh, it will be alright, Harry. She is not truly gone. I am not so cruel to deny you the pleasure of her flesh against your own.”

Harry screamed until he no longer could.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, I was supposed to write an epilogue and I wrote this instead. This was all originally supposed to be a one-shot and look at what it has turned into lmao ^^;
> 
> Thank you to my beta erised-selddir <3

The day of the ritual was the first of his many successes, drinking in the boy’s fear like the sweetest ambrosia as he unveiled his ultimate creation. The separate pieces were mismatched, different gradients of flesh jarring with the other. None of the shades looked quite right, but that what was why he had two different sets of flesh prepared to remedy this.

He had not quite planned to use Ginevra’s skin to build his new body, but it was convenient that the other man he had taken had nearly the same color to his skin. It definitely made the whole project much easier for him to execute. She really had forced his hand—the pathetic girl daring to touch what was his as if she were entitled to Harry’s flesh.

But of course, the dark lord could be quite generous. Harry had craved to touch her, and who was he to deprive his charming boy of such a thing? He’d use her skin for his own, give him and the pathetic girl exactly what they desired.

He could not simply allow her to live when she had done what he had craved to do since coming into Harry’s care. This was the best alternative to their unique circumstances.

After all, he wanted the boy.

At first, this desire for the boy had made something noxious curl in the back of his mind, stoking a burning rage that he, Lord Voldemort, could even fall so low as to feel this way for another. But this desire could not be helped; it was an addiction that ate away at his carefully woven self-control.

The boy made him into more of a monster than he already was, and it was amusing to recall the words the boy had shouted like a mantra in his mind as he approached his new body.

_Monster. Monster. Monster._

He should have been offended by it, but the passion infused with Harry’s words had been a complete delight. His thoughts were entirely focused on Voldemort, and that was more than enough for him at the moment.

There was a fine line between love and hate, and they were definitely straddling it.

The dark lord waved Harry’s wand over the body, breaking the stasis charm he had placed it in. The massive cauldron at the other end was bubbling, the slow simmer he had placed it in during the night bringing the contents to a boil.

It was shining a brilliant blue—the last step required for the potion.

_Excellent._

Harry screamed at him when he scooped the bright liquid from the cauldron into a flask, careful not to touch the boiling liquid as he did. He did not want to scald the boy’s skin—it was to be impeccable, pristine save for the marks he saw fit to place on the boy.

And he planned to leave many.

After drawing the necessary amount, he turned his attention to the body. He pointed Harry’s wand at the skin he had acquired, and proceeded to smooth and flatten the pieces until Ginevra’s flesh and the unnamed man’s skin became one.

Voldemort quickly merged the flesh with the body, scraping away the fine membrane already there on his new form, before draping the skin over the exposed muscle. He was careful as he did it, mindful of the fact that he needed to do this quickly lest the body reject the flesh.

The potion would finish the rest, but there was still the risk.

When Voldemort shaped the skin over the body, satisfied when he did not see a single flaw, he dropped his wand. He was quick as he moved, ignoring the cries of the boy in the back of his mind as he pressed the potion to the lips of his new body and poured the liquid down the body’s lips.

He needed to get some of the potion into the body’s mouth first before he submerged it in the boiling liquid. It hardly made sense to Voldemort initially, but he supposed this step was essential to ensuring the organs were in working order prior to submersion. It was the best explanation he had for this particular step, and if it ensured not even atrophy could harm his organs? So be it.

He waited a few moments, coaxing the body to swallow all of the potion, before he levitated the body and dropped it carefully into the massive cauldron. Voldemort could faintly hear the boy wish that the body would drown—sink to the bottom of the cauldron and never be allowed to see the light of day.

The thought amused Voldemort so much that he couldn’t repress his laugh. He stepped closer to the cauldron to watch the liquid change into different shades of blue—even turquoise, laughing still.

Voldemort held out one arm over the cauldron, pressed his wand into his wrist, and slit the skin with his wand. It stung, but Voldemort did not flinch at the sensation, enthralled by the sight of Harry’s blood trickling into the boiling liquid below. Voldemort could feel Harry’s confusion at this particular step, unsure of why the man needed Harry’s blood at all.

It was sweet how naïve the boy was. Voldemort did not plan to lose his connection to the boy after he completed his body. He needed to keep the boy under his thumb, to possess him should the boy make any reckless attempts to escape. What better way than to form a bond made of blood?

“A security measure, of sorts.” Voldemort supplied, before healing the wound and stepping away from the cauldron.

“And now, the grand finale.” Voldemort was drunk off Harry’s fear and anger, unable to repress the desire to smile as he lifted his wand. “Accio mirror.”

And then the mirror was in the room, its monstrous girth fitting through the passageway through the power of Voldemort’s will alone. It was convenient that he had been preparing for this moment since the boy had unwittingly provided him with the key to his freedom.

The mirror was glowing faintly in the dim light of the room, beckoning for Voldemort’s magic. It was his prison—a reflection of the mistake he had made when handling Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem.

But he would not make a mistake this time—he was prepared to handle the powerful magic that trapped his power behind the glass. Voldemort would rise again, finish what he had begun before his plans were interrupted.

He levitated the mirror to where the cauldron was, entranced by the way the magic around it seemed to recoil from the smoke escaping from the cauldron. It was comical to see such powerful magic edge away from the darkness pooling in the pot, and it was quite satisfying to drop the infernal thing into bubbling liquid. He was euphoric.

He felt the precise moment when the spell broke, the mirror screaming its last cry before shattering into fine particles of dust, melting into the liquid within. Voldemort felt his magic completely consume him, the familiar inkiness filling him to the brim with power. His eyes blurred at the corners, drunk off the feeling of reuniting once again with what he had lost.

He felt powerful—revived. It was almost a pity that Harry could not enjoy this moment as well. The boy had stopped screaming, but he could sense the horror in the boy’s thoughts.

_Pity._

And then he released the near chokehold he had on the boy’s body, feeling his magic trickle a burning path out of the boy’s esophagus and into the pot bubbling a foot away. He poured himself into the pot, careful to drain Harry of all of his magical reserves as he did.

He needed the boy weak, pliant in the time that he rebuilt his body. The boy could ruin everything if he wasn’t careful.

A split decision could be enough to destroy him, and he’d rather not allow the boy to act so recklessly.

He drained the boy until Voldemort felt sure that Harry could do nothing, finally allowing the last of his essence to seep from the boy’s body and into the cauldron to complete the ritual.

When Voldemort did it, he expected that it would take much longer to awaken in the new body. But it was nearly instant. He opened his own eyes for the first time and he could breathe—the potion having completely evaporated.

It was enlightening to see the dejected look in the boy’s eyes when he rose from the cauldron—a look of terror and awe making his bright green eyes alluring.

“Hello, Harry.” Voldemort began, enchanted that his voice remained unchanged despite using a complete different set of vocal chords. It had taken him months to find the right person—listening and indulging in vapid conversation to pinpoint just who his next unfortunate victim would be. The man that he had taken his voice from spoke too much, indulged in useless chatter that elicited a strong desire to kill the man on the spot.

But he had bided his time, luring the moron out into an unmarked path that no wizard would be dead taking.

It was an absolute treat to see the way Harry flinched away from the sound.

“Y-you’re absolutely sick.” Harry did not bother to play along with his game, and Voldemort could not help how amused this made him. He remembered when the boy had practically curled into his side, craving desperately for Voldemort to have a solid body to comfort him.

“What does that say about you, then? Did you not wish for me to escape from the mirror? To have a body that I could hold you with?” Harry froze, and Voldemort had to restrain himself from simply taking the boy in that second. Harry really looked quite the sight when he was frightened.

“That was before! You tricked me.” Harry shouted, shuffling back when Voldemort climbed out the cauldron. Voldemort was completely nude, drenched from the roots of his hair to his toes in the transparent liquid.

Voldemort laughed when Harry looked everywhere but at Voldemort’s crotch—the mixed look of horror and mortification in the boy’s eyes drawing a pleased grin from his lips. It was appealing—the way the boy could not help but squirm at the sight of him—how the boy could not bear to even look at him.

He had been careful—meticulous in the construction of his new body. He wanted to recreate his old self as closely as possible, a notion he hardly would have cared for in the past. But then, Harry had found his old self attractive—seduced by the sound of his voice and the shape of his face.

It had been difficult to find another with a face similar enough to his own as well, making the endeavor longer than Voldemort would have liked. But his patience was rewarded, fate clearly favoring him when he had run into a carbon copy of himself on his way to murder another man. His hair was not quite like his own, nor was his skin nearly as pale as Voldemort’s flesh had been.

It was fortunate that skin tone and hair color were things he could easily fix. And if something was slightly off? Voldemort had taken his time altering it until there was no flaws to be found. He supplied the head for the body, though he would admit that this victim had not been nearly as fun. But it had certainly been a step closer to his goal.

It had been a quick night, but it had left him plenty of time to renew his previous task—to lure the second fool into his trap. That banquet had definitely been more interesting than the former conquest. Voldemort felt warm at the memory, his skin itching to reach for Harry’s own to sate the hunger coiling in his stomach.

It felt fantastic.

“I will not harm you, Harry.” He promised the boy, the silent “for now” hanging heavily between them as he approached.  Watching the way the boy pressed himself into the wall, propping his back against the concrete as if it would open and allow him to escape. Voldemort practically purred.

But there was nowhere for Harry to go. Voldemort had made sure of that.

And then Voldemort was on him, slipping easily into Harry’s space before the boy had even thought to respond. He wrapped his arm around Harry’s waist, the other slithering into the boy’s wild black locks to pull at the delicious strands. He closed his eyes blissfully at the sound of Harry’s startled gasp, reveling in the sensation of finally feeling Harry’s skin against his own.

It was markedly better than he had ever dreamed.

“D-don’t touch me.” Harry struggled against him, the sensation of his hands gripping against his arms drawing another delighted sound from his lips.

_Yes._

The boy’s attempts were pitiful, something that perhaps in another time, would have drawn scorn from him, but this was Harry. The boy that had readily ingratiated himself into his life—that delivered him from rotting away in the Room of Requirement until he was nothing but a memory. A failure—his manifesto never to be realized. The boy had whisked him away from the absolute silence of the room, the loneliness of remaining trapped behind glass until there was absolute black.

The boy was his—weak or strong. He was pathetically noble, the various flaws in his character still an irritant. But there was plenty of time to change him—to mold him into what he desired him to be.

Voldemort had crafted a perfect body out of the bits and pieces he had stolen from undeserving vermin—it would be no trouble at all to pick apart at this boy. To take the qualities he desired, to consume the innocence still in his green eyes, and make the boy his own.

“After you’ve wished so desperately for my touch? I am generous Lord, I take great care of those that please me.” Voldemort whispered the words into the boy’s ear, chuckling softly when Harry trembled in his arms and continued to squirm.

The gyrating of Harry’s body against his own threatened to undo the little restraint Voldemort had, but he had to be patient. The boy was skittish as a fowl—he was still young and if his plan was going to work, he needed to make it so the boy could never think to leave.

“Shut up!” Harry snapped, but Voldemort simply kissed his ear, dragging his lips from the warmth down his neck. He could feel the way Harry’s pulse throbbed beneath his skin, the flush from his cheeks radiating down the boy’s pale neck. It was exquisite—a vision that made something feral stir beneath his skin.

He wanted to consume the boy—to rip him open until there was nothing left that Voldemort did not touch. He wanted to paint the boy red, to leave him utterly spent and wanton after being forced to crest over and _over_ again. Voldemort hungered for his flesh, but he pacified himself with clenching his fingers into Harry’s hair and forcing their lips together.

He closed his teeth around the boy’s bottom lip, just hard enough to force the boy to open his mouth for his exploration. Voldemort could taste the boy’s anger and fear, could see the swirling emotions in Harry’s eyes as he devoured his lips like a starving man.

And then Harry bit down, catching Voldemort’s lip between the pearly white teeth. The pain of it was arousing, so much so that Voldemort could hardly control himself when he slammed Harry’s head into the wall behind his head, purring when Harry’s mouth slackened, allowing him to snake his tongue past the boy’s lips.

Voldemort wanted to groan from the taste of him—licking at the seam of his lips because it was simply not enough. Harry groaned beneath him, the sound of it enough to nearly undo Voldemort’s self-control. Voldemort coaxed Harry’s tongue to touch his own, practically sucking the boy in.

The boy was dazed, the slam enough to have likely concussed the boy. But it hardly mattered to Voldemort then, his power had returned and he could do greater magic. A simple healing spell can remedy that—it was nothing serious and it did nothing to stop him from slipping his leg between the boy’s parted legs.

Harry gasped into his mouth, and Voldemort sucked the boy’s tongue into his mouth before nipping at his tongue. This action drew a pained hiss from Harry’s mouth. It delighted him to see how easily he could draw such expressions from Harry—how sensitive he was.

It was almost a shame that he had to stop.

Voldemort ground his knee once more into Harry’s crotch, his lips drinking in the sounds leaving Harry’s open mouth, before releasing the boy. He did not step away entirely from Harry, but he knew that if he continued touch him, Voldemort would be tempted to do much more.

Can’t have that now. The boy was a temptress, but Voldemort would not give in.

Not yet at least.

Harry was trembling like a leaf, his mouth red from his savage kiss. The boy was disheveled, his hair wilder and in more disarray than Voldemort recalled ever seeing him. It was matted with blood, tangled and flat where Voldemort’s fingers had carded through it earlier. The boy was splattered with blood, his shirt and pants rumpled.

He looked quite the sight.

_Beautiful._

“Now then, let’s get you cleaned up. There’s much that needs to be done.”

The boy simply glared at him, his lips set into a grim line, but otherwise did not say a word when Voldemort’s magic teased at the boy’s limbs. It was a threat—an effective one, gauging from the frightened look that passed over the boy’s expressive face.

“You won’t get away with this.” The boy whispered, echoing the words of the girl he had murdered. It should have infuriated that he would dare speak those words, but instead, he smiled at the boy. She was already dead, what did it matter that the boy chose those words? The boy was bound to him—there was nowhere for him to go.

No one he could tell. Lord Voldemort was the boy’s future.

“I already have.” He purred.


	15. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is some graphic stuff. Dubious consent and some fucked themes. I would list for you the amount of warnings on this chapter, but they are all on the tags.
> 
> This is the end. For real this time. It was a pleasure writing this for my waifu and sharing this with the community. I hope you all liked the piece as well. c:

 Ginny was never found.

All that had been left of her was the vision of her radiant smile plastered on a myriad of magical flyers, asking for anyone that had seen her to please contact her family. She had disappeared like vapor, the only memory that she had even existed, the countless accounts written about her achievements and her aspirations. The only reminder that she was a person, the press release held by her family begging for whoever had knowledge of the girl, to finally come forward.

But no one ever did. The days that she was absent a sharp pressure that stole all air from her loved ones.

And that was all she would ever be. A memory, a shadowy specter that no one would ever stipple their fingers through.

He had made sure of that.

It would simply not do for Harry to be hauled away to Azkaban when Voldemort had yet to thoroughly enjoy the spoils of his conquest. He wanted to soak himself in the boy’s cries, to steal the very words from his mouth as the boy often had when he undressed in front of Voldemort when he had only been a mirror.

He wanted to consume Harry completely, settle his essence so firmly between the cracks of the boy’s heart that Harry would not know where either of them began or ended.

But he would be patient—he could have simply taken him then when he had risen from the bubbling cauldron after the ritual. He could have strangled the air right out of the boy’s lungs and taken his pleasure readily enough.

It would have been all too easy, but it was not what he wanted. No, he wanted to savor the boy first before he did. Scald the boy’s flesh with his touch, ingrain himself so deeply into the boy’s mind that he would never dare defy him.

And he would succeed in this. He would make sure of it.

 

* * *

 

 

“How are you feeling? I imagine it isn’t very comfortable?” Harry jolted at the sound of Riddle—no, Voldemort’s—voice in the dark.

“S-shut your bloody mouth.” Harry groaned, unable to move or see in front of him as he strained to pinpoint just where Voldemort was. His vision was obscured by a thin black cloth, his body arranged in a way that kept his legs completely splayed open and unable to close. Harry could feel the ropes wrapped tightly around his knees, his ankles tied so that his feet were touching his arse in the strange position.

Harry’s breaths were coming fast, his heart beating so hard in his chest that it felt like it was about to burst. He did not know where the man was, and it made his stomach flip unpleasantly. He was on a comfortable surface, his back cushioned by the plush material.

But it was definitely not a bed he was laying on.

He tried to shift his body into a more comfortable position, to close his legs, but he could barely move at all. Shifting only a couple centimeter on either side. Voldemort had made sure that there was nowhere for him to go—his movements restrained but in no way painful. His legs were spread so taut that his muscles trembled with the strain, but it was not so discomfiting that he couldn’t handle it.

The mortification at being naked and splayed open like some virgin sacrifice did enough of that. It was humiliating and awkward, the knowledge of it making his cheeks too warm.

“I could help you, you know. You just have to give the word.” The man’s tone was silky, the baritone so low that Harry thought immediately of old Jazz artists. The seductive note to their voices a lilt that ensnared the senses as easily as they promised danger beneath the depths of their tone. It reminded Harry of when he had first met the man—of when he had first heard the rich quality of his voice. It was a seductive purr, one that never failed to catch Harry completely by surprise.

The sound had left him entirely tongue-tied and starry-eyed. Enamored by the deep tenor that tumbled from the magical mirror. Seduced by the pitch that, even now, left Harry feeling breathless.

Harry felt bitter at how easily he had let himself become seduced, at how trusting he had been when the man had practically warned him of the danger he posed. It should have been Harry’s first clue—Harry should have known that this was what would happen if he messed with things that shouldn’t be messed with.

But it was too late now.

Harry struggled against his bonds, his hands tied somewhere above him. The rope felt silky against his bare skin, the material surprisingly soft considering the many times Voldemort had tortured him in the past few months. Pain hardly ever came as a surprise anymore—the false promises of security and leniency lost in the sea of agony that washed over him whenever Voldemort felt the need to crucio him after Harry’s numerous retorts. The pride of successfully provoking Voldemort more than worth the agony.

But then, there were moments where Harry did not purposely instigate trouble. When Voldemort’s own sycophants stoked the man’s ire and made Harry’s life more miserable. Those moments were the most painful—a misery that left Harry choking and writhing for release. Harry hated those days—forced to grit his teeth and bear curse after curse until Voldemort’s anger passed.

Harry, however, would take that nightmare over what he was currently facing.

The boy inhaled a shuddering breath, knowing well that to directly respond would only encourage Voldemort.

The man had already consumed most, if not all, of Harry’s life. Harry would bloody lose his mind if he allowed Voldemort into his head—if he let his thoughts turn back to the monster he had unwittingly brought into his home.

It had been easy for Voldemort to become a part of his life, however. So easy, in fact, that it still shocked him. Voldemort ingratiated himself into Harry’s own routine—ensnaring the hearts of Harry’s close friends and family members with an ease that left a bitter taste in Harry’s mouth. Harry knew that Voldemort did not really give a single shite about his friends or his family, his obsession did not extend so far. But Harry knew that this was more to seize further control of Harry, to hold the lives of the people Harry valued most between his fingers to force him to submit.

It drove him mad that it bloody worked.

Though it did not stop Harry entirely from fighting Voldemort at every step of the way. Even when Voldemort had managed to earn Sirius’s respect, a man that Harry thought would notice something amiss in Harry’s life. Sirius, just like Hermione and Ron, was just as in the dark, and Harry could not help how bitter it made him.

But Harry knew he could not blame them really—aware that Voldemort was a fantastic liar and a proficient manipulator. Harry himself had fallen prey, and he was still unsure if he himself was out of the woods quite yet. After all, Harry still felt hurt that Voldemort had lied to him, that he was used as some sort of pawn to regain a body.

And it was funny, wasn’t it? The fact that Harry was most enraged by Voldemort’s betrayal—his deception—than all the other transgressions committed by him. It unnerved Harry that he could somehow still feel something for this man—that he dwelled so much on the pain of Voldemort lying to him rather than the guilt he felt regarding the men Voldemort had murdered.

The treachery stung worse than his guilt, and it made Harry feel even guiltier. A noxious emotion settling into the back of his throat at the fact that Voldemort in his own way had tainted Harry too. Harry wanted to curse himself for the shitty hand he’d been dealt, for somehow still caring for this monster.

For somehow finding a way to care—to recall with vivid clarity the many nights he spent curled around Tom as he spoke to him.

Despite what Voldemort made Harry do while he had been defenseless and asleep.

Harry throat’s felt tight with his own self-loathing, his shame threatening to consume him.

He could not believe he still loved—

Harry flinched when he felt Voldemort’s fingers glided over his cheek, the touch searing through his flesh like a hot blade. Whatever thoughts Harry had been dwelling on moments earlier completely discarded in that instant, forced back to the present moment.

Harry felt his stomach clench with realization at just how close Voldemort had gotten. So close that Harry, aside from the sensation of Voldemort’s fingers on his face, could feel the heat emanating from Voldemort’s body.

“Don’t touch me.” Harry spat, straining against his confinement when Voldemort continued to stipple his fingers against Harry’s cheek, the sensation making the boy’s skin crawl. Harry wanted to bite the man’s hand off, to clench his teeth so tightly around those bold fingers until he hit bone and hurt him. Just as he had hurt Harry and continued to do so whenever Harry did not do as the man wanted.

But Voldemort, almost as if sensing Harry’s violent intentions, took care to keep his fingers just out of reach of Harry’s mouth. It was disappointing, really. Harry would revel in his pain—if only for just a moment before he was cursed. He had never desired to hurt someone as much as Harry did in that moment, his chest tight with the realization that he was thoroughly cornered like some animal.

That he was helpless—entirely susceptible to Voldemort’s whims.

And it was all, entirely, Harry’s own bloody fault.

“I find that you’re not in the proper position to be making such demands of me, Harry.” Harry bristled, teeth baring into a snarl as the man’s fingers trailed from his cheek to his neck to tease at the delicate skin. Harry could sense the amusement in Voldemort’s voice, the audacity of it stoking Harry’s own ire with each passing second.

“Fuck you. Let me bloody go!” Harry continued to twist and jerk in his bindings, ignoring for the moment that he was entirely naked and completely exposed. It was pointless thinking about it—he was already naked. He would abandon his modesty if only to show that he was not some doormat for the man to step on.

“Are you offering, Harry?” Voldemort’s fingers trailed lower until they passed over his naked chest, the warmth pulsing through the limb making Harry still in his struggles for a moment. Voldemort had never touched him like this—not since the man had come out of the cauldron. Voldemort, since then, had made it a point to avoid touching him. Always torturing him indirectly despite the heat in his eyes broadcasting his desire to touch him.

Harry wasn’t blind—he knew the man wanted him. He understood it the moment he had felt the man’s hardness against his own that horrible morning. He knew it when he sat idly in his gilded prison, recalling like a terrible film the visions of Voldemort murdering man after man as he pieced himself back together, his thoughts fixated on the idea of having Harry bathed in blood as he—

Harry did not pursue the thought further.

He was aware of Voldemort’s desire—but really, who wouldn’t be able to see it? It was something obvious, apparent in the way the man treated him. That desire, Harry, in a way, could understand. But his own awareness of Voldemort? That, Harry did not understand in the least. He did not understand the strange connection he had to him since Voldemort split Harry’s wrist and spilled his essence into the bubbling liquid in the cauldron. Since then, he could feel Voldemort like an itch in his brain—Voldemort’s own emotions and thoughts like an illness that stained every thought that passed through Harry’s brain.

It was this connection that made Harry’s own lips part at the feeling of Riddle’s fingers touching his chest—that made a strange heat coil in his gut that he had only felt once. When Ginny had pressed her soft lips against his own. It was this stubborn parasite in his mind that made Harry arch his back, shocked by the electricity of Voldemort’s magic melding with his own.

“I would rather die.” And Harry meant it, channeling all the hurt and anger he felt since discovering Voldemort’s true nature into his voice. “You’re a fucking monster. You’re disgusting.” Harry could not stop, knowing well that saying such things would mean pain.

“Oh? What does that say about you, Harry?” Voldemort’s voice was arctic, all traces of heat and amusement that had been there earlier completely erased. It never boded well when Voldemort’s moods shifted like that—Harry had been through several torture sessions already to understand the dangerous line he was straddling.

It was unfortunate for Voldemort that Harry did not give a fuck. He would not be cowed by the man, even if he knew it was in his best interest to stay silent and not provoke the man further. But Harry could not help himself—his helplessness making him desperate to regain at least some semblance of control.

To retain some sort of agency since Voldemort had practically ripped it from Harry’s hands. To ignore the fact that he still—

“Do you think I could ever stomach the thought of you touching me? That I could ever want you after what you’ve done? You’re absolutely insane if you think I’d—“

“But you do.” Voldemort’s hiss chilled Harry to the bone, the malice in the tone enough to silence all thought of yelling and screaming insults at the man. He was fumbling in his brain for anything to provoke Voldemort, then—to steer him away from the plan he clearly laid out for them that evening. Pain, Harry could deal with, but the circumstances at the moment were foreign.

“You want me despite the monster that I am…”Voldemort jeered, and Harry gasped when Voldemort dug his nails into Harry’s skin and scratched a path from the top of Harry’s chest down to his navel. It burned, making tears gather at the corner of Harry’s eyes from the pressure of Voldemort’s nails on his sensitive skin. Harry would be lucky if he wasn’t bleeding by the end of this.

“You deny it, Harry. But look at what my violence inspires in you.” Harry shook his head in denial when Voldemort’s fingers grazed the sensitive skin at the corner of Harry’s thighs, reminding Harry in that second that he was naked. Harry jerked, trying to shut his thighs to deprive Voldemort access, but his legs were tied firmly in place. All he could do was wiggle his toes and twitch a couple centimeters in either direction as Voldemort’s fingers continued to trace along his trembling flesh.

Harry knew it was useless, but he could not stop himself from struggling despite the fruitlessness of the endeavor. Defiance pulsing through his veins as he did.

“What are you—“ Harry did not finish, a strangled sound escaping his lips in that second when Voldemort’s fingers were suddenly teasing at his cock, gliding from the base up to the head of his cock with patient fingers.

It was with great embarrassment that Harry realized he was hard, the heat below displaying all of Harry’s shame to the man practically eating him with his gaze. He tried to ignore the way Voldemort’s fingers touched him—to ignore the heat that began to build beneath his skin, but the attention Voldemort laid on his cock made his gut twist pleasantly, sending tingles up his spine each time Voldemort scratched him.

It was no more than a brush of skin against his cock, something so very minuscule—but it was driving Harry mad. Harry could not stifle his groans when a single finger traced underneath his cock then, following the vein Harry had once traced himself when he had masturbated numerous times as a fumbling teenager.

“What is this, Harry? I thought you couldn’t stomach the thought of me touching you?” Harry whimpered, wishing he could swallow the sound back into his throat when Voldemort chuckled, the sound of it so low that Harry almost didn’t catch it. And then Voldemort’s palm wrapped around his cock, moist and hot around him. Slick with something Harry was sure was lubricant.

Harry tried not to buck into Voldemort’s grip, gritting his teeth as Voldemort jerked him gently—teasing at his head with his thumb every chance he could. “Look at how hard you are from just a little touching. I’ve barely laid a hand on you, boy.”

The hand felt slick around him, making Voldemort’s touch slide without interruption as he stroked Harry on his hand, his pace slow.

Slowly and steadily building into a quicker movement as the seconds progressed.

Harry felt sweat begin to bead at the back of his neck as he tried to stifle the moans that wanted to escape. His humiliation plain on his face as Voldemort elicited a variety of different from Harry’s lips.

This was worse than being cruciated—than being tortured for hours on end. “S-sod off. It’s a defense m-mechanism.” Harry choked out, throwing his head back when Voldemort pace became more brutal, his thumbnail digging into the hole of his cock repeatedly as he fisted Harry’s cock.

Harry opened his mouth into a silent scream when he suddenly felt something thin push in through the hole at the tip of his cock, the stretch burning through him as the thin rod continued to push in until Voldemort stopped. Tears welling up at the corner of his eyes, but refusing to let them fall through the torture.

“Defense mechanism? Why, Harry. Are you implying that this is artificial?” Harry nearly screamed when the thin rod was forced out cock and then reinserted, fucking his urethra. It was pure agony—the sensation far from the pleasant feeling he had been feeling seconds earlier.

But despite it all, despite the agony making tears burn at the corners of his eyes, Harry did not soften in the least. He was still hard, his own precum oozing from his head as Voldemort violated a place Harry never imagined could be violated. Harry was mortified, grateful in that instance that he had been blind folded.

Harry didn’t think he could stomach watching as he was debased like this.

“If this is a defense mechanism, then why are you still hard, boy?” Voldemort teased, ceasing the torturous reinsertion of the thin rod to speak. Harry hoped that Voldemort would just pull it out completely, that he’d free him from the strange fullness he felt. But when Voldemort removed his hand, he did not take the object with him.

“T-take it out!” Harry whispered weakly, Voldemort’s magic like a caress over his exposed skin as the man lingered closely to him, his robes caressing Harry’s right side. Harry hated how weak he sounded—how the defiance he had been clothed in earlier was stripped from him, leaving him trembling helplessly as Voldemort just played with him.

Voldemort was quiet for a moment, the silence making Harry more uncomfortable with each passing second as Voldemort all but ignored Harry’s request to remove the bloody thing from his prick. It made him nervous—a shot of adrenaline pulsing through his veins as if anticipating the worst.

But who could blame him? If an incensed Voldemort was dangerous, a quiet one was worse.

“Tell me something, Harry.” Harry inhaled slowly through his nose when Voldemort’s fingers were suddenly on his chest, the touch so soft that Harry almost missed it. Goosebumps rose along Harry’s skin, a strange heat cresting where their skin touched as the fingers passed over a nipple. It was like tracing a match across paper—the exposure browning the white parchment until it completely ate away at the pure white. His cock felt heavy—the foreign object throbbing insistently as Voldemort continued to tease Harry’s skin.

Harry tried not to move when Voldemort’s fingers focused on the tiny nub, the attention raising the nub into awareness as the heat of Voldemort’s skin sunk deep into Harry’s naked flesh. Harry wanted to curse when he heard Voldemort hum above him, likely pleased with how attuned Harry was to his touches. With how Harry’s nipple stiffened into a hard point at just passing over it.

Before Harry could open his mouth and utter a scathing retort, Voldemort, seeming to sense Harry’s intention, spoke.

“Are you a masochist?” Harry swallowed at Voldemort’s question, disliking the way Voldemort’s fingers continued to graze over his nipple as he tried to make sense of what he was asked. Harry had not been expecting the question, completely thrown by it as he ignored the tenderness in his cock and the feeling of Voldemort’s touch on his nipple.

And then realization hit him like a ton of bricks. Outrage and embarrassment consuming him at once.

Harry was certainly not a masochist. He did not enjoy pain nor did he enjoy giving it. He had never personally been intimate with a girl—or a man, considering his unwanted attraction to Voldemort—but he knew for a fact that pain was not something he wanted.

Harry did not like pain.

“No, but you’re a bloody sadist.”

It was just inconvenient that every time he wanted to get a rise out of the man, it usually ended with him screaming at the end of Voldemort’s wand.

“Liar.” Was Voldemort’s wry response before he twisted Harry’s nipple between his fingers, his nail embedding into the sensitive numb hard enough to rip a cry from Harry’s lips. Harry tried to jerk away, but his body was still tied down.

Fuck.

“Do you enjoy it when I hurt you, Harry? Does the idea of a murderer pleasuring you disturb you so much that you need me to punish you?” Harry choked when his other hand settled over his cock, a single finger playing with the metal rod still inserted deeply into his urethra. It was a threat and a promise all woven together—the implication in Voldemort’s voice enough to make Harry freeze. The man’s harsh grip on his nipple hurt, but Harry knew for a fact that it would not compare to the pain of Voldemort fucking into his urethra again.

“No, I—” Harry gasped when Voldemort’s finger ran from the rod down to his balls, passing his perineum to slide a single, wet finger against his arsehole. He clenched instinctively, shocked and at a loss for words.

He wouldn’t.

“You’re leaking.” Harry heard Voldemort say flatly, Harry’s cheeks flushing red with his embarrassment as Voldemort continued to tease at his quivering hole, his fingers twisting and tweaking at his nipple all the while. “How interesting that is.” Harry squirmed, wincing when he unwittingly shifted the metal rod inside his urethra when he did.

But the pain did little to ground him.

Voldemort continued to touch and tease—the hand gripping his nipple finally releasing the tender nub to snatch at the other neglected nipple before twisting that nub too. Shuddering when Voldemort’s thumb teased at it, the pain and the pleasurable sensation overwhelming.

Harry whined, unable to curtail his shock at just how breathless he sounded in that second. It was a sound unlike anything Harry had ever heard before. He wanted the ground to swallow him whole when Voldemort whispered “good boy” just loud for Harry to hear. Harry bit his lip to stop himself from making any more sounds—noticing then how Voldemort’s touches became more insistent, and wishing more than ever for this all to end.

He felt like he was going to explode—uncomfortably hot and aware of Voldemort as the man continued to lay feather light touches against his arsehole.

Harry wanted to jerk, to show that he would not hold still, but he was afraid of what Voldemort might do if he did. If he provoked him, Voldemort would not torture him as Harry had grown accustomed to. No, Voldemort would do something else entirely different and the prospect of that was enough to keep his mouth shut.

For the moment.

“Nothing to say?” Voldemort began, his hand releasing his nipple so that their only point of contact now was the finger caressing his hole. “A shame. I was looking forward to your defiance, boy.” Harry spat then, incensed at Voldemort’s mocking tone to care that he was supposed to behave. To reign in his anger rather than provoke the man further.

It was what the man wanted. And Harry, like the hothead he was, was playing in to the man’s machinations.

Harry didn’t know whether his aim was true or not, but he felt satisfied nevertheless. Victorious in spite of the anxious energy churning in his gut like an angry serpent. He really wished he wasn’t so easy to provoke—that Voldemort did not know how to push his buttons the way Harry knew how to push Voldemort’s. But there was no helping it now, he couldn’t take back what he had done and he’d have to live with the consequences.

Though, that didn’t stop him from feeling afraid or acting recklessly.

“You think you’ve won, Tom?” Harry started, ignoring how Voldemort paused at the sound of his former name leaving Harry’s lips. Harry could not help the smirk that crept along his face when he noticed. Perhaps the man had not expected Harry to retort right back?

Good.

Harry knew that Voldemort hated that name.

Harry really couldn’t help himself.

“That you own me mind, body, and soul?” Harry continued when Voldemort did nothing to interrupt, an eerie silence overtaking the room. “You don’t own me, Tom. You never did and never will. I don’t belong to you or to anyone else.”

And then Voldemort’s touch completely left him, leaving Harry oddly cold. Harry no longer felt the tickle of Voldemort’s robes licking at his skin, and the boy didn’t know if he should be nervous about this development.

Though it didn’t stop him from continuing.

“Does it eat at you to know that you could brand and mark me, but that I will never be truly yours? Does it make your blood boil that no matter how many gifts you rain on me that you could never win my loyalty? I pity you, Tom.”

And it was in that precise second that Harry knew he fucked up.

Perhaps it was the sudden flaring of Voldemort’s magic in the air or the feeling of Voldemort’s fingers digging into his hair and yanking his head back until his neck felt ready to snap? Harry was not sure which one clued him in, but it hardly mattered now. Not when the cloth obscuring Harry’s vision was suddenly ripped from his face.

A bright light blinded him completely, forcing Harry to blink away the dark spots dancing along his shoddy vision to combat the sting.

And then the world came into view, frayed at the edges as he tried to make sense of where he was.

The room was entirely bare—all except for a table at the far end. Harry could see an array of objects on the surface if he squinted, but otherwise, could not make out what they were. His glasses had been removed earlier on. His vision was poor, but Harry could still see enough to know that the room was practically empty—sterile and completely unlivable.

It almost looked like a base—

Harry froze when he realized just where he was. Dread and anger coiling in his gut like a poisonous gas as he renewed his struggles almost instantly, ignoring the burning stare of the man standing several inches beside him and his painful grip on Harry’s hair. Harry could not bear to look at him, knowing that it was that guise that had ensnared him in the first place.

That had led him down the path he now walked.

“How dare you bring me here!?” Harry hissed, ignoring the dull pain in his cock as he continued to shift as he moved. Ignoring, too, the way Voldemort’s fingers tightened enough to likely tear some strands of his black hair from his head.

But it didn’t matter in that second that he was hurting himself.  That Voldemort was practically tearing his hair right from his sensitive scalp. None of that pain mattered.

Harry was outraged—his anger so incredible that it was a miracle Harry was not burning through the magic-resistant bonds keeping him in place. It felt like he could, if Voldemort had not anticipated any and all of Harry’s movements, melt the rope holding him down.

“You…dare me pity me.” Voldemort ignored Harry’s accusatory question, his voice so soft that Harry had to strain to hear it. Tempted now to look at Voldemort, to gauge the man’s mood because in the entire time Harry had been kept confined—at least, lucid mostly, Voldemort had never spoken so softly before. Harry had heard him angry—his voice shrill and wild as he tortured Harry at the end of his wand. Harry had heard him pleased—the tenor of his voice decadent and rich, more a purr than actual speech as he praised Harry for cooperating.

But this voice was empty—barren of emotion. It set the hairs in the back of Harry’s neck on edge.

“Me who will have all of Britain on its knees, who has already flitted through the ranks to purge this government of the scum rolling in its filth? It seems that my generosity has been misplaced.” Were Voldemort’s final words before he whispered a curse Harry was all too familiar with.

“Crucio.”

And then Harry was screaming, his limbs twitching and straining against his bonds as he tried to chase away the pain cutting through him like a rusty blade. His skin was on fire—blistering, seeming to melt off bone the longer he was put under it. He felt like he was breaking to pieces, as if each individual bone was being broken and then, mended, to only be broken again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Voldemort was still clutching tightly onto his hair, but Harry hardly felt the man’s hand there, or the foreign object still lodged inside him. The Cruciatus curse consumed him—making seconds stretch into years of agony as he continued to scream himself hoarse. His ears ringing from the sounds of his own shouts until finally, Voldemort ended the curse.

The relief was instantaneous.

A weak sound escaped his lips, and he didn’t have it in himself to feel embarrassed for that show of weakness. Even the strongest men fell to the torture curse—they all screamed. Even if they fought tooth and nail to fight through the blistering heat eating at their flesh.

Harry bared his teeth out into a savage grin once he’d settled his breathing, taking in air sharply through his nose because his throat felt incredibly raw from abusing it earlier. It seemed that Harry had distracted the man enough to derail him from his previous intentions—the strange tension that had fallen over them dissipating like smoke.

It no longer felt like Tom was going to eat him. Only hurt him. Good.

“But this is what you want, isn’t it? You want me to hurt you because it makes you feel safe. It makes you feel less guilty.” Voldemort stated more than asked, the emptiness in his voice melting slightly into amusement.

Harry did not know what to make of that. Completely thrown by how quickly Voldemort’s mood had changed.

It made the high of Harry’s earlier victory shrivel. The satisfaction coiling in his belly, to shrink into itself because the words were true. And Voldemort had recovered almost immediately. Harry hated how well Voldemort could rip through him and pull out the thoughts as if they were his own.

Harry finally turned his attention to Voldemort. The intensity of the man’s stare on the right side of his face and the swift change in his tone, too much to ignore.

Harry flinched at the fire burning in Voldemort’s retinas, at the red in his eyes that still shook him to the core. His eyes had not been red in the mirror but a deep soulless black. But in the flesh, there was nothing left of the man Harry had known. If the man Voldemort had shown him had been the real him at all, that is.

Voldemort looked almost the same age as he had within the mirror, if not slightly older. But there were no lines, his skin flawless and smooth as the surface of the glass Harry often stroked when anxious. It was always jarring—to see him in the flesh. To know that the man in the mirror was no longer an image Harry could only see.

Voldemort was a perfect carbon copy of the self in the mirror, down to the neat coil of his hair to the immaculate form of dress. His skin as pale as a ghosts, cheeks a healthy pink. A man that exuded both power and humanity—that wore the skin of man, but was truly a monster within.

It was a blow to his gut every time Harry looked at him.

“Let me go, Tom. We both know this is pointless.” Harry sounded and felt so incredibly tired, then. The Cruciatus curse had practically sucked out most of Harry’s energy. Incredibly difficult as it was to ignore the way his limbs twitched from the aftershocks of Voldemort’s curse. He was incredibly sore, but otherwise, no worse for wear.

The only benefit of the torture curse. Aside from the fact that although it hurt immensely, and rarely if ever settled the man’s bloodlust, it was enough to curve Voldemort’s rage. For the moment.

“Pointless? Harry, how naïve you are. This is only the beginning.” Harry flinched when Voldemort’s lips twisted into a wolfish grin, teeth looking inhumanly sharp underneath the lone light above them as he forced Harry’s head down to his chest, the gesture putting an awful strain on his neck. “Look at yourself. This is how I have envisioned you. I thought to be merciful and keep you unaware, but you have forced my hand.”

Harry did not want to obey the command, the man’s order provoking Harry’s stubborn nature to rear its ugly head. But Harry’s curiosity won out over his desire to defy Voldemort, unable to stop himself from shifting his gaze downward to take in whatever it was that Voldemort thought to hide from him.

Harry regretted the gesture instantly, flinching so badly that Voldemort had to restrain his head to keep him from looking away. And Merlin did he want to.

Just as Harry had suspected, there was a metal rod lodged into his cock. The thin metal protruding from his prick curving so that Voldemort could pull and push it to his heart’s content without issue. It jutted out proudly, displaying for a fact that Harry was still morbidly hard.

And then, almost as if his mind had tried to block him from witnessing more traumatic images, Harry saw the red. The sticky, viscous fluid that Harry had mistaken earlier for lubricant coating his cock, painting his thighs a rich, brilliant red. Harry didn’t need clear vision to know what it was—his throat raw and tight with disgust.

He thought he was going to be sick.

“W-what—” Harry tried to say, but stopped. Unable speak through the shouting in his mind begging him to get away. Voldemort had been—

Harry was shocked he hadn’t thrown up what he had eaten the previous day, with the way his stomach was roiling.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? Red suits you, Harry. It makes your eyes stand out quite brilliantly.” Voldemort purred, but Harry ignored the man’s compliment. The sound of his own blood rushing through his ears much louder than the croon of the man’s voice as Harry stared, almost shell-shocked, at the mass of red between his legs.

And then Voldemort’s hand was on his cock, cradling the flesh gently between his fingers. Harry cringed at the pleasant feeling of the man’s skin over his own, hoping that Voldemort didn’t do what Harry suspected he would do.

“Don’t.” It was a plea, but Voldemort ignored it in favor of trailing his thumb over his cock to prod at the metal. It was a light touch, so soft that it did not hurt at all. Nothing like how it had felt earlier.

“No.” Voldemort stated simply, punctuating his response by forcing the metal deeper inside. The gesture tearing a shriek from Harry’s lips, his throat aching painfully when the rod hit something inside him.

Harry saw white, overwhelmed with pleasure.

What was that?

Harry didn’t want it to feel good. He didn’t want to enjoy the feeling of Voldemort’s moist hand on his cock, smearing his skin with blood as he gripped Harry’s cock firmly and began to stroke. To feel with each passing second, the way the metal pressed deeper inside him. Ripping cry after cry from Harry’s lips as Voldemort did.

Oh Merlin, please.

Harry wanted to beg, wanted to scream for Voldemort to just bloody stop. But he couldn’t, not when he was so hard. Not when not once did Harry’s cock soften under the abuse.

Harry felt tears burn at the corner of his eyes, tempted to cry from the shame and the guilt. This was far worse than what Voldemort had done to him earlier—far worse than what Voldemort had made Harry experience since Ginny’s death.

Harry didn’t think he could face anything worse. But he had been wrong. Oh Merlin, he had been so wrong.

“I will tear out the ugly truth from between your ribs…”Voldemort whispered, setting a brutal pace as he continued to stroke Harry closer and closer to climax. Harry fought against it, watching in horror as Voldemort ripped another guttural moan from Harry’s tongue, the man’s chuckle following the sound.

And then Voldemort, seemingly growing tired of standing at Harry’s side, with his hand still jerking Harry’s cock, walked around to stand between Harry’s spread legs. His painful grip on Harry’s hair finally gone.

Harry immediately shut his eyes at the sight of the hunger—the need—in Voldemort’s eyes. Unable and unwilling to look any longer as Voldemort tipped him closer to orgasm with each blood soaked twist and pinch of his fingers.

“…I will unmake you and build you up from the ashes.” Voldemort continued to speak, and Harry bit his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Voldemort’s expert fingers pushing him so close to orgasm that Harry felt like he standing at the edge of a cliff.

And just as he neared it, so close to the precipice, Voldemort stopped. The man whispered something underneath his breath, so quickly that Harry could not quite catch the words, but it hardly mattered what it meant.

All that mattered was that Harry had been so close and unable to fall. The denial ripping a frustrated groan from Harry’s lips before he could truly register what he was doing, his eyes popping open thereafter in horror when he dawned on him just what he had done.

Harry wanted to undo the damage that this had done.

Though, gauging the mischievous gleam in Voldemort’s eyes—a twinkle that Harry did not need to actually see to know was there—the damage could not be undone.

“…Though, it does not seem it will take me very long to do just that. Did that feel good, Harry?” Voldemort released his grip on Harry’s cock once more, again trailing his finger down to Harry’s arsehole. Harry shivered from the sensation, his hands clenching into fists as he watched Voldemort’s lips stretch into a grin.

“S-shut up!” Harry shouted, but Voldemort simply continued to prod at him for a moment before suddenly pushing in one, blood slicked finger inside. Harry released a pained hiss at the feeling.

“Does the blood soaked hand of a monster push you close to the edge?” Voldemort continued, twisting his fingers inside Harry as if looking for something. “Does my little masochist enjoy being humiliated? Knowing that he takes pleasure from being debauched by a monster?”

Harry cried out when Voldemort shoved another finger inside, his insides clenching tightly around Voldemort’s fingers in hopes that it would expel the man out. But gauging from the pleasured hiss leaving Voldemort’s lips, it did the exact opposite. Harry was absolutely terrified.

“S-stop.” Harry hated himself more than he ever thought he could, more than he hated Tom and the way he had played Harry for months. Harry tried to stop himself from reacting to the sensation of Voldemort’s fingers inside him, to the strange feeling of his fingers pushing inside before scissoring to stretch him open, but he couldn’t repress his shivers. “Enough!”

Voldemort’s only response was to force a third finger inside, the stretch shooting sharp pains up Harry’s spine. Harry whined, unable to look away as Voldemort’s forehead began to bead with sweat from his strain, a flush settling on his cheeks as he stared hard at Harry’s face.

“You know, you’re right about something…” Voldemort suddenly remarked, unaffected by Harry’s earlier pleas to stop. Harry might as well have been speaking to a wall considering all the attention Voldemort was paying him.

Voldemort continued to push inside him, twisting until Harry screamed. His voice breaking when Voldemort touched something inside him that felt similar to when Voldemort had shoved the metal deep into his urethra.

His mind went blank for a moment—the squishing sound of Voldemort’s fingers fading into nothing from the shock of it. Harry eyes fluttered closed in an attempt to gather his thoughts, before opening them again to glare at the beautiful face of his tormentor.

Voldemort looked pleased—like the cat that just ate the canary. Harry’s stomach fluttered nervously.

“I am a sadist.” Voldemort murmured, his voice breathy before ramming his fingers back inside to hit the spot that stole all the air from Harry’s lungs. Harry saw white, and then black, his mouth parting into a silent scream as Voldemort fucked him with his fingers.

Harry felt like he couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed entirely by Voldemort’s touch. Harry did not register that Voldemort was leaning over him until he felt his clothed body over his own, his free hand trailing to flick the metal rod with a finger, the motion forcing a loud cry from Harry’s lips.

“I want to watch your skin slick with blood and sweat, your cheeks wet with your tears.” Voldemort whispered into his ear, his lips so close to the skin that Harry wanted to die. He felt like he was being broken to pieces, his mind incapable of thought as Voldemort continued to jam his fingers against Harry’s prostate.

Merlin, I am going to lose my bloody mind.

“I want to split you open and show you just how mine you are, Harry. Brand my touch on your skin.” Voldemort’s breath felt hot against Harry’s neck, the fingers over his cock sliding up to smear blood up his stomach before tweaking at his left nipple.

Harry shuddered, feeling something electric trail up his spine. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn’t stop himself from responding. Voldemort knew where to touch, where to prod, what to say to make Harry come undone.

It was humiliating.

“Beautiful.” Voldemort whispered before taking the corner of Harry’s ear into his mouth, dragging his sharp teeth on the delicate flesh before moving lower, tracing along Harry’s tan skin.

All the while, his other hand continuously rammed his fingers into Harry’s prostrate, robbing Harry of any desire to turn his head away. To think of fighting when his mind was so blissfully blank and enjoying the feeling of Tom’s fingers pressed inside him—of his mouth tasting his skin. The fear and the disgust dwarfed by desire.

“I would worship you, sit you on your own throne made of bone and ash.” Harry did not register the words, he knew he should have been horrified but when Tom sank his teeth deep into Harry’s neck while fucking him, it didn’t matter. Harry moaned, twisting in his bonds as he listened to Tom’s sharp breaths against his neck.

Tom was biting him so hard that Harry felt the precise second his teeth drew blood, the pain drawing another cry from Harry’s lips as he was practically forced once more towards orgasm but denied.

And it was hilarious really, that the instance Harry thought he might just cum, something prevented him from falling into the abyss. He whined, complaining as Tom unclenched his teeth to lap up the blood beading from the bruised skin, before raising his head to stare into Harry’s half-lidded eyes. Fingers still plunging deep inside, hand still twisting at his nipple as he took in the vision of Harry writhing under him.

“Something wrong? Should I stop?” Tom teased, laughing when Harry was unable to respond to the man’s mockery. Continuing to slam his fingers inside Harry’s arse almost as if to prevent Harry from speaking a word.

Harry wanted to tell Tom to stop, had been telling him to since before this all began, but the pressure in his gut told him otherwise. A voice in his mind told him to give in—to let himself enjoy the bliss only this man could provide. And he was finding it more and more difficult with each second to resist it.

Harry held his tongue.

Crying out instead when Tom’s nails entrenched themselves into Harry’s nipple, the pressure hard enough to cut the skin, before twisting the sensitive bud once more.

“Such a rude boy, you are. Failing to answer a direct question.” Harry wanted to tell him to go fuck himself, but when Tom released his nipple to press his bloody hand against Harry’s cheek, the desire to do so died. Tom’s face was so close to his own that he could count each individual lash of Tom’s eyes, could tell apart the different notes of red in the iris. It was rather telling if Harry of all people could distinguish such things.

Tom’s hand was gentle on his face, lightly coaxing Harry’s face closer to his before his lips were suddenly on his own. Harry gasped from the sudden shock that this contact shot up his spine, unable to stop himself from moaning into the kiss when Tom, emboldened by Harry’s pleased response, deepened it.

Tom’s tongue trailed over the seam of Harry’s lips, and Harry let him. Unable to stop himself from meeting Voldemort’s tongue with his own, intoxicated by the pleasure bubbling within his veins and the electricity shooting up his spine.

Tom tasted like blood—a metallic tang that should have made Harry scrunch his face with disgust. But it didn’t, it didn’t register in Harry’s mind in that second what he was doing—of who he was kissing as he was fucked repeatedly by Tom’s fingers, unable to help himself when Tom suddenly sunk his teeth around Harry’s bottom lip. The sting enough to draw a sharp moan from Harry’s throat as he gave in completely to Tom.

Harry felt magic flutter against his bare skin, and then, instead of feeling Tom’s clothed body over his heated skin, bare skin was pressed between Harry’s parted thighs.

Harry felt like he was on fire. The connection between their skin making Harry’s skin tingle pleasantly—reminding Harry belatedly of just how connected Tom and him were. Of the magic that Tom had woven and of the affection he still felt deeply in his heart.

Harry was overwhelmed.

“Tell me to stop, Harry. Tell me you don’t want this. All I need is a word.” Tom whispered into his mouth after releasing Harry’s lips. Harry’s mouth tingling after Voldemort’s brutal kiss. Harry licked at his own lips, noticing how Tom’s eyes followed the gesture, as Harry tried to gather his jumbled thoughts.

But Tom’s bare skin against his own—bringing to life the connection that existed between them—did little to organize Harry’s messed up mind. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask, didn’t know why he was even fighting in the first place.

“Don’t.” It was one word, the most Harry could manage through his quiet moans before Tom’s lips twisted into a grin, malicious as he ripped his fingers from Harry’s arse.

Harry yelped from the sudden movement, the sound fading into a pained whimper when Tom was pressing something hard and hot against his wet arsehole.

Tom, however, did no more than that. Choosing instead to wait for Harry’s breathing to settle, for the intoxicating haze of pleasure to fade from Harry’s mind before he decided to break Harry apart on his cock. Harry sucked in several greedy breaths to settle his rapidly beating heart, and wished Voldemort had simply just taken him then when the rapturous desire gave way to indescribable horror.

Harry’s stomach turned, his eyes widening and mouth parting in horrified realization at what he had just done. At what he had just allowed Voldemort—not Tom—to do to him. Of what he had given the monster permission to do in his compromised mental state.

It drew a high laugh from the man’s lips, the sound so jarring to Harry’s ears that he wanted nothing more than to cover his ears up to avoid the reality of this.

“Do you see now? I own you. Mind, body, and soul. But don’t worry, I take great care of what belongs to me.” Voldemort’s taunted before plunging his overtly large cock inside, stretching Harry painfully around his monstrous girth.

Harry screamed as Voldemort forced his way in, the man giving Harry no time to adjust before he was pulling out to push right back in. The friction between their skin making the moan groan pleasantly as he did.

“N-no. Stop.” Harry didn’t care that he was begging, that his eyes were wet with unshed tears as Voldemort set a brutal pace without a care to Harry’s own pain. Harry felt like he’d been torn in two, like Voldemort had ripped him open to sew him back up, and open him up again.

But when Voldemort suddenly bumped into his prostate, the pain slowly began to fade into a more distressful feeling of ecstasy, Harry’s pained cries becoming loud moans. Harry could hardly keep up, the pain and the pleasure melding so closely together that Harry didn’t know why he was screaming at all.

Was it the pain of Voldemort’s almost inhuman cock splitting him at the seams? Was it the delicious sensation of Voldemort’s cock ramming against his prostate?

Harry did not know, and it became more and more difficult to make sense of it all.

The pain quickly overshadowed by the pleasure—the constant abuse against his prostate defeating the burning stretch of Voldemort’s monstrous girth tearing him open.

Harry writhed, and then screamed again when Voldemort waved his hand over the air, the metal rod inside him pumping inside Harry’s cock without being touched. Harry’s eyes rolled to the back of his head from the dual sensation of Voldemort’s cock and the metal rod stimulating his prostate from both ends. His mouth hanging open in a silent scream.

“I-I-ah!” Harry tried to say something, to beg him to stop the rod from fucking into his urethra as Voldemort speared him open with his cock, but Harry could not even finish the first word. Tongue tied and overwhelmed.

“What was that, Harry? I did not quite catch that.” Voldemort’s tone mocking as he asked, before leaning further into Harry’s parted legs to run both hands along Harry’s sides, a gentle caress at first. It was a ticklish feeling, the feeling of Voldemort’s fingers dancing so pleasantly against his skin. It was almost came as a surprise when the touch suddenly became more insistent, nails scratching hard enough to leave bright red lines against his tan skin as they touched.

It burned a path upwards, the nails digging so deeply against his flesh that blood began to ooze as Voldemort continued to scratch and fuck both his holes. Harry couldn’t speak, babbling uselessly for the man to stop.

And to continue.

The pressure in his gut building once more, but failing to tip him over the edge again.

“Do you want to cum, Harry? Is that it?” Voldemort asked, his tone deceptively light as Harry shook his head to and fro when one of Voldemort’s hands wrapped around Harry’s throat. It was moist and sticky, likely with blood. It was disgusting, but Harry did not have the wherewithal to care.

He needed to fall into the abyss—needing to tip over the edge and just end the relentless feeling of Tom and the rod fucking him.

“P-please.” Harry whispered, the words coming out shockingly clear as Voldemort’s hand suddenly squeezed his throat—tight enough to make breathing difficult.

Harry’s vision blurred, more so than it was already, unable to look away from the frenzied gleam that overtook Voldemort’s eyes as the man increased his pace, the rod in his urethra moving in tandem with Voldemort’s vicious pace.

Harry, before he knew it, was edging closer from the feeling of Voldemort’s hand on his throat. His heart beating rapidly when the corners of his eyes began to darken from lack of oxygen.

Harry writhed and jerked in his bonds when Voldemort’s grip did not loosen, when his pace did not ease, as it became more and more difficult to breathe. Voldemort was clutching his throat hard enough to bruise, and Harry was both terrified and thrilled at the weightless feeling that overtook him.

“That’s it, Harry. Cum for your master.” Voldemort groaned.

And then Harry finally tipped over the edge. Climaxing with a soft cry as he was undone by the feeling of Tom’s fingers asphyxiating him.

Harry was silently screaming through it all—sensitive to the touch as Voldemort continued to fuck him despite the cum sticking between both their bodies. It was so much cum that if Harry had not been overwhelmed by the different sensations overtaking him, he would have felt embarrassed. Ashamed that he had soiled both him and Voldemort with the evidence of his depravity.

“N-no more.” Harry gasped out when Voldemort did not cease fucking both his holes, only loosening his hold on Harry’s neck so that Harry would not pass out too soon. But Voldemort completely ignored Harry’s pleas, his cock rubbing against his insides as he slammed continuously into his prostate. It was almost too much when Voldemort suddenly cupped Harry’s soft cock into his hand, ripping another cry from Harry’s lips when he began to stroke it.

It was too much. Oh Merlin, it was too much. The pleasure was so painful—his prick too sensitive from his orgasm.

Harry wanted it to just end it.

Oh Merlin, please stop. Please stop. Stop.Stop.

And almost, as if some deity had heard Harry’s mental pleas, Voldemort came with a low moan. His cock deep inside Harry as he did.

Harry moaned tiredly at the sensation of something warm coating Harry’s insides. The soft sound shifting to one of shock when Voldemort slipped his cock from Harry’s arse to splatter Harry with what remained of his seed.

The metal rod inside his urethra finally stopping its cruel abuse before vanishing altogether. Giving Harry his desired reprieve.

It was quiet in the basement save for the sound of their breathing. Harry unable to move at all after what he had just experienced. His mind suspiciously blank.

“Shh, Harry. Everything will be fine. It’s all over now.” Voldemort whispered into the silent room, before leaning in to press soft kisses against his cheeks. “Don’t cry.”

Harry did not know when he had begun to cry. But almost, as if spurred by Voldemort’s soft voice, he broke.

A choked sob left his lips when Voldemort then lapped up his tears, his tongue hot as Harry tried to stifle his sobs. The guilt and the shame—the ecstasy and the memory of Voldemort stirring his insides making him want to be ill.

Because there was a mess of blood and cum between his legs, because Voldemort was kissing his face and treating him like something precious, because he was so fucked up that he had enjoyed it.

He couldn’t stop crying, even as Voldemort whispered sweet promises for him to hear.

“You’ll get used to it, Harry. After all, all we have is time.” Voldemort crooned, his words a death sentence.

  

* * *

 

 

It had taken years for the boy to completely bend to his will.

But his submission had been a reward nevertheless. Harry had fought him—and oh—how delicious it was to see him shatter so completely beneath him with blood painting the room red. To see Harry’s eyes close before climax as Voldemort forced cry after delicious cry from the boy’s plump lips.

A beautiful vision—a delight that often derailed his thoughts when in the presence of his followers. But no one would ever dare call him out in his distraction. They were Slytherins—preservation held them back from making such a mistake.

He could do as he pleased. And if that meant thinking of the boy on his knees, well, that was certainly nothing that concerned his followers.

It had been difficult to settle himself deep into the boy’s bones—to ingrain himself as thoroughly in the boy’s mind as he had with the boy’s family and friends. But it was worth the effort to see him now, naked in their bed. To see his eyes bright with his desire and admiration—just as he had looked upon him when he was only a boy finishing his final year in Hogwarts.

There were still traces of his defiance there, but Voldemort neither felt the need nor the desire to divest him of that identity.

It kept things interesting—made eternity with the boy at his side, a delicious prospect.

“P-please, My Lord.” Voldemort closed his eyes to relish in the sound of Harry’s plea, the want thick in his voice as he crossed the short distance between them. Bare skin meeting bare skin, the pleasant tingle of their connection pulsing heatedly between them as Voldemort smoothed his hand over Harry’s cheek to coax the boy to gaze into his eyes.

Avada Kedavra eyes. The color of nature—of grass moist with dew.

It was almost enough to distract Voldemort from the knowledge of what rested between Harry’s fingers—of the blade hidden behind Harry’s back that the boy had enchanted to remain unseen.

“What do you plan to do with that, Harry?” Voldemort whispered before seizing the wrist holding the blade, crushing it between his fingers. The boy winced but otherwise did not react to the pain, accustomed to Voldemort’s brutality.

“I want to push it between your ribs and watch you choke on your own blood.” Harry’s tone was matter of fact, the passion in his eyes making his eyes glow brilliantly beneath the low light.

Voldemort’s licked his lips, intoxicated by the sight of Harry following the motion with his eyes.

Oh yes, it would definitely be a shame to break him completely.

“How you have fallen. A heart so pure, black with such dangerous wants.” Voldemort squeezed until Harry released a pained hiss between his teeth, the boy’s eyes glazing over with desire when he was forced to drop the blade.

The knife clattered to the floor, the sound breaking the silence that had fallen between them.

“And so mine. Isn’t that right?” Voldemort purred before leaning to press his lips against Harry’s, the touch soft before Harry leaned in to deepen the kiss. His mouth hot and moist, tongue sliding against Voldemort’s bottom lip to encourage Voldemort to give him more.

“ _More_.” Harry whispered, pressing himself so closely that there was no space between their bodies. The hunger in the boy’s eyes sparking Voldemort’s own lust.

They both knew that Harry could play this game all he wanted—could fight him in the smallest of things. But in the end, as Voldemort sunk his fingers into Harry’s riotous hair, the boy was caught in his webs. Voldemort’s presence between the cracks in the boy’s life.

The boy could hate him, and he most certainly did, as Harry moaned into the kiss. But he loved Voldemort too, and the boy would never really kill him.

Not when he was as poisoned as he was.

“ _Mine_.”


End file.
